


Presque Vue

by MorbidDramaMaker



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Ghosts, Haunting, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Just a lot of time spent in the library, Malfoy Manor is creepy as shit, Minor Violence, Mystery, POV Third Person Limited, Paranormal, Psychological Horror, Reincarnation, Slow Burn, Spooky, Supernatural Elements, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:41:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27426619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorbidDramaMaker/pseuds/MorbidDramaMaker
Summary: History student Hermione Granger finds herself studying the mysterious Malfoy Manor for Dr. Binns' annoyingly complex term project. The Manor is creepy, alluring, and she can't get over the feeling of being watched. The assignment isn't made any easier when the home's owner begins to show a strange fixation on her. And no one will say what happened in 1911 to cause the fading beauty to be boarded up for nearly one hundred years. For once, Hermione is faced with a mystery that won't solve with just a few library books.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 30
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, welcome to my second Draco/Hermione fic. 
> 
> Maybe it's the time of year, but I've been in the mood for something a little spooky and romantic. 
> 
> Note: I often love to play in the world of Ms. Rowling's creation, but I do in no way support her transphobic views. I support and love my trans brothers and sisters and I want to help the fandom a safe space for them.

“Don’t forget,” Dr. Binns intoned as students began stowing notebooks and laptops. “Your term project proposal is due by the end of the week. If you are having difficulty finding a subject, do not hesitate to make use of my office hours.”

Hermione was more than certain that no one partook of the history professor’s office hours, partially because he was known to drone on and his tendency to go off on boring tangents rather than addressing whatever concern his students had brought forth. Even she, a dedicated senior, wouldn’t bother to make an appointment — despite the fact that she was struggling to come up with a subject that would suit the assignment.

As usual, she smiled guiltily at her professor as she finished packing up, making her way out of the classroom to meet her friends in the library’s cafe just down the quad. The small, secluded liberal arts school didn’t have a Starbucks or any other recognizable brand of coffee house. The solitary cafe was run by the same contractor who oversaw the three dining halls on campus. They made a passible latte, which is what Hermione ordered when she arrived.

Ron and Harry had found a coveted spot beside one of the old fireplaces. They did not appear to be deep in studying, per usual, but rather animatedly discussing some podcast they’d both finished. She joined them, sighing as she sank down.

“Two weeks into the semester and my head is already spinning,” she lamented.

Ron, who was currently covering the table in flakes of croissant, looked at her with the expression of a blowfish. “Wut?” he mumbled around the pastry.

“Organic Chemistry getting you down?” Harry asked sympathetically. He’d had to take a few of the upper-level sciences in his pursuit of a degree in Criminal Justice.

“Surprisingly, no,” she sighed. “It’s my local history and architecture class. Dr. Binns has given us a term project that is going to be a lot more work than I counted on. He’s usually so easy.”

“Yeah, he is,” agreed Ron. Ron wasn’t particularly academic, attending the university on a soccer scholarship. From freshmen year on, he’d focused on less on his grades and more on his gym schedule and girlfriend, Lavender. Hermione wasn’t even sure what his post-university plans were.

“When I had him last year for my history credit, he almost never read any of our essays. I pretty much got solid As even on the ones where I missed the page count.”

That was saying something — having helped edit a number of Ron’s papers, Hermione knew he’d hardly earned the grade through any sort of true scholarship.

“What’s the assignment?” Harry asked.

She outlined it quickly. “I have to do some kind of fieldwork, find a historic structure, primary sources, give background on how the building was constructed and maintained. And it can’t be a university building,” she added when Harry opened his mouth. “Something off-campus.”

Her friend frowned, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, musing. “How old?”

“At least over a hundred years. But I have no connections here, I barely leave campus as it is. All of the other usual picks have been selected by the students who live here and know the residents. All of those houses on the Christmas homes tour? Gone. That one owned by the historical society? Gone. The train station, the bank on the square, the old mill, the city library, all of it’s already taken. I don’t have an in!”

Only a handful of students that attended were not native to the area. Hermione and Harry were both outsiders to the small community that surrounded the campus, but Harry had family roots in the area which gave him a leg up over her. The name “Potter” usually got some knowing nod of recognition, whereas “Granger” got furrowed brows. The Weasleys went back generations; they possessed their own corner of the local cemetery. The local farmer’s market was named after Hermione’s roommate Luna Lovegood, as it was founded by a great-great aunt.

Usually Hermione’s minority status wasn’t an issue, except when it came to schoolwork that required this kind of footwork with locals.

Harry looked suddenly thoughtful. “I might know of one. It’s a little outside of town.”

Perking up, Hermione straightened from her despair. “Where?”

“North, past the quarry — the one with the abandoned mines. It’s really remote. Only went by it once. But I know someone who knows the owner. You remember Theo Nott?”

Theo was once Harry’s suitemate, freshman year. He was from one of the oldest local families. She’d always found him rather aloof, but generally okay. There were some who could be more snobby to outsiders. Theo seemed more uninterested than anything. Harry seems to like him well enough, and that was enough credit for Hermione.

“Do you think you could ask him for me? See if it’s a possibility. Otherwise I might need to ask Binns for some leads.” Hermione winced at the thought of being trapped in Binn’s office listening to him drone on about brick making or some such other dull subject.

Ron frowned. “Are you sure you want to mess around with someone in Theo’s lot?”

Small town politics meant more to Ron. Certain names would often cause him to roll his eyes or scoff. He made sounds of disbelief anytime Hermione mentioned studying with Daphne Greengrass, despite the fact that Hermione had insisted repeatedly that Daphne was perfectly lovely and her relatives’ bad behavior certainly wasn’t Daphnes fault.

This was one of those names that set Ron off. Yet Theo had never given Hermione any reason to mistrust him. At times he’d been a bit of a cold fish, sure. He didn’t even seem to hang out with the more openly disagreeable students like Pansy or Vincent or Gregory. Those three seemed to make it their life’s mission to make her feel like an outcast.

Hermione waved a hand. “It’s a school project. I don’t think I would need more than a few hours in the house. But if you’re worried one of you can come.”

The prospect of joining her looked even less appealing than the thought of her working with Theo. Ron shook his head.

“No, no,” he said hastily. “I mean, you know what you’re doing, Hermione. We’d probably only be in the way. But you know. Just, be careful.”

Just as she’d suspected.

“Who owns the house?”

Harry scratched the back of his head, looking upwards as if the name was inscribed on the ceiling and he was just trying to make it out. “Malfoy, I think. I’ve never met him, old friend of Theo’s.”

The name didn’t ring a bell. Ron, however, went pale.

“I don’t know about this Hermione —“ he started.

“Ask him,” Hermione cut him off firmly. “If I could come by this weekend.”

—XXX—

There were no phones at Malfoy Manor. In fact, there was barely electricity. Though it had been installed in the 1890s, it was rudimentary at best. Mostly just a few bulbs here and there to offer dim light, but little else. So if one were to wish to connect with the home’s residents, they had to resort to old fashioned means.

Few people nowadays had any desire to speak to the owner of Malfoy Manor. Which was probably why doing so was inconvenient. Theo tried to console himself with the notion that the drive would give him a chance to catch up on podcasts. Finally listen to that album he’d been putting off. Get some time to think. But really, it was a bother.

The gates were open, as though he were expected. Within moments of pulling up he was standing before the manor’s master.

Malfoy was sitting on the fourth from the bottom step of the grandiose staircase, propped on one elbow, wearing a spotless appearance of total boredom that could only be cultivated by the wealthy.

“I didn’t expect you until Sunday,” he drawled. Though he was studiously inspecting his nails, Theo knew that Draco was pleased by the surprise visit. Despite appearances, Malfoy was painfully lonely in his strange exile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Your little problem,” Theo said, slightly breathless. He’d all but ran inside. “I think I might have stumbled into a solution.

Draco’s unearthly silver eyes flashed at the announcement.

“Do tell,” he said, and suddenly all traces of loafing evaporated from his posture. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely reviews! Here we are, chapter two, and we are going to meet the enigmatic Mr. Malfoy

The house Hermione had expected wasn’t the one she stood before. For starters, it was a manor, not a “house.” When Harry had given her the contact information of the caretaker, she had assumed that it was a weathered Victorian. He’d described the place in loose detail, only saying that it was impressive. While Hermione trusted Harry with her life, his opinion on old houses weren’t exactly as informed as her own. Her expectations had been low.

This place didn’t just exceed them — it went above and beyond. A home like this was something she’d only seen in movies.

The wrought iron gates set her heart fluttering as they opened to her, but the building that sat at the end of the long white gravel drive made her whole being seize. She could tell immediately that it was a classical Georgian structure, with symmetrical windows and chimneys creating a neat box. The stone had probably once been a sandy gold, but age and lack of care left it a grey, blackening especially near the windows. It gave the effect of weeping, as though the residence were crying a constant stream of darkness. Massive mahogany double doors were flanked by two planters with sculpted shrubs, adding a hint of formal warmth and life to the fading beauty.

There would likely be at least a half-dozen bedrooms. Possibly a conservatory, maybe even a ballroom? The prospect of exploring such a place warmed her blood. _What secrets do you hide?_

She pulled her car through the circle drive, stopping just past the door. Hermione could make out a hint of the back, which suggested an equally weathered veranda and what appeared to be a formal garden with neatly trimmed hedges, a fountain, and a pergola walkway. Dim sunlight glinted off a glass structure attached to the house — a greenhouse, perhaps. The windows were slightly misty from age and lack of regular cleaning.

Slugging on her backpack, Hermione took deep breaths as she approached the door and knocked once. After a long pause, the door swung open with a drawn-out creak.

There was no one standing at the knob, ready to greet her. All that lay before Hermione was shadowy darkness, outlines of furniture and thresholds just beyond the grey light of the rainy midmorning. Holding her breath, she stepped inside.

“Hello?” she called softly, turning to peer into the foyer.

There was a shifting in the darkness and a stout man appear from ahead, melting into view. He was sallow in the face, with large teeth, a long nose, and narrow beady eyes. His expression was of detached suspicion. Hermione plastered on a smile and held out a hand, hoping it did not quake too much.

“Hello,” she repeated, talking too quickly. “Sorry to barge in, the door just — I’m Hermione Granger, we spoke on the phone. I’m from the university, Theo Nott’s, er, friend. Are you Mr. Malfoy?”

Something flickered in the man’s expression. “No,” he replied, voice much higher than she would have suspected. “I’m Peter. Mr. Malfoy is in the green parlor. Follow me.”

It was hardly a warm greeting, but she merely kept smiling, pulled the strap of her bag tighter, and followed. Her impulse was to pepper him with questions, but she refrained, sensing it wouldn’t get anything beyond monosyllabic answers.

It struck her as odd that he’d not given her any context to his position. Was he a friend? An uncle? The butler? Why wasn’t Mr. Malfoy meeting her himself? Perhaps he was an older fellow and spent most of his time resting? Or maybe he was one of those rich men who were brought things and people and food and didn’t know how to lift a finger.

As they walked, Hermione took the opportunity to observe the house.

All of the windows were heavily curtained in deep blue velvet. Sconces lined the corridor, emitting a sickly yellow light from tiny bulbs meant to resemble candle flames. The house seemed clean enough from what little she could see. Most of the walls were wallpapered in silk damask. Oil portraits, their surfaces cracked with age, watched as they passed. Hermione trailed slightly so as to fully absorb every inch. This house was _exactly_ what would get her an A. Provided she could get enough access to make her essay compelling.

Finally Peter the maybe-butler stopped before a pair of doors, opening them unceremoniously and gesturing her forward.

In this room the yellow brocade curtains were open, allowing the overcast light in. The walls were covered in an apple green silk, trimmed with white molding. A piano sat in one corner, covered in framed black and white photos. Most of the artwork consisted of landscapes. Pink flowers in a tarnished silver vase sat on one of the small tables between ivory winged-back chairs. It was a stark contrast to the rest of the gloomy house.

Hermione blinked as she took in the pair of lemon-colored settees center and the man sprawled out on one of them. His back was to the door, facing the windows on the opposite wall. Her entry seemed of little interest to him, as he did not sit up or turn back when Peter announced “Miss Granger,” as he drew Hermione into the center of the room to face his master.

“Tea,” was all the young man said in dismissal. And with that Peter left.

Hermione was rooted to the spot. This was not the crotchety old man she’s imagined. Why he was likely close to her age.

After a long moment where her host remained lounging silently, scanning her critically with his too-light eyes, she took a few steps forward. “Mr. Malfoy?”

“Present.” His lip curled unpleasantly.

She disliked him immediately. Pale, with sharp features, a little on the lanky side, he was dressed in a pair of black slacks and a white dress shirt, an unbuttoned charcoal vest on top of that. All of his attire looked expensive, from the fine wool of his outwear to the Italian leather of his shoes. But he did not seem bothered by the fact that it was getting mussed by his slouching. Laying back on the short sofa with his legs hanging over the arm, he seemed very careless, a prince holding court. Hermione didn’t expect her host to roll out the red carpet, but this was simply rude.

Without waiting for an invitation, she sat on the settee across from his, folding her hands in her lap. “I appreciate you allowing me to come here, Mr. Malfoy,” she said, hoping her tone sounded suitably professional and not the least bit irritated. “Theo said this place was quite splendid but he didn’t do it justice. It’s a treasure.”

“Draco,” he corrected, shifting to lean his head on his elbow to better look at her.

“Pardon?”

“Draco. That’s my name.”

“Oh.” She paused. “You can - you may call me Hermione.”

Truthfully she’d rather he didn’t call her anything, but it seemed ill-mannered to say so.

His lips quirked. “Shakespearean.”

“Yes. My parents were very enamored with him when they were younger.”

He looked unimpressed. “Indeed. I suppose you have your questions for this paper, but I have a few of my own first before I let you start your snooping. Why are you here?”

She bristled at the question and the implication that her research had gossipy connotations. She was here for academic reasons, for goodness sake!

Squeezing her hands together, Hermione brightly explained her assignment, concluding, “I think Dr. Binns will be impressed with this subject as your home isn’t one included on his list of suggestions.”

“There is a reason for that,” he said shortly. “My family prefers their privacy.”

“And I appreciate your willingness to allow me in given that.”

He hummed. She noted that his eyes were a stormy mix of blue and grey, contrasting nicely with his hair, which was so fair it was nearly white.

“I would like a better scope of your intended work. What specifically do you need from us? How much access you are you looking for, what topics you’ll be covering? That sort of thing.”

She nodded energetically and dove in.

Peter returned midway through, bearing a tea tray that he set between them. Draco waved at Hermione, inviting her to prepare her own cup. The bone china was patterned with green ivy, rimmed with gold, and felt almost weightless in her hands. She noticed that he took his tea entirely plain, no sugar or cream.

“We would prefer it if your report focused primarily on the history of the house, Miss Granger,” he said when she finished describing her specific goals. Now that he sat upright his eyes were affixed to her, an unnatural lightness about their silver gleam. “The stones and wood that went into the structure. Not the people that have lived within her walls.”

This took Hermione aback. Lowering her teacup, she considered how to phrase her reply. “I - I cannot avoid mentioning your family. They give the story context. Their preferences, their history. The construction of the rose garden will mean nothing if I can’t say your great aunt Muriel installed it as a birthday gift for her husband, that sort of thing.”

“Then I’m afraid I cannot open my home for your school project.” His tone was a little mocking.

Hermione took a deep breath.“Mr. Malfoy, I cannot remove them entirely, but,” she said quickly as his eyes flashed. “I can do my best. And I can try to present everyone in the best possible light if that’s what you’re worried about. Would it help if you read my essay before I submit it?”

It wasn’t like she was bound by any ethics, as if she were submitting this to the newspaper or putting it up for publication. It was one assignment for an old professor who would probably give her an A even if she were to turn in ten pages written in Klingon. And this was hardly the term paper she’d reference in any grad school applications. The challenge of the manor, now that she’d seen it, was too appealing. She wasn’t going to lose this opportunity.

Satisfied, Draco sat back. “That sounds agreeable.”

Relief ought to have coursed through her veins. But she still felt an unsettling tension, which only increased when Malfoy asked about her prior knowledge of the house.

“I don’t know much,” she admitted. “I’m not from the area, I only moved into town when I started at the university three years ago. Theo ha only told me a little. He said your ancestors made their fortunes on the mines nearby, but not much else. So I’m eager to learn, you see. I’ve always been enamored with old houses. This one is especially beautiful, I’m partial to Georgian styles, the symmetry, and clean lines. They’re very pleasing to the eye.”

“Indeed.” Something in his expression was curious, a quirk to his lips and a certain light in his pale eyes. He looked a little less aloof having heard her speech. She got the strange sense that her lack of context was pleasing, somehow.“Well then. We shall be happy to educate you on our history, Hermione.”

Ten minutes later, after negotiating a time to return and begin her research into the family records the following week, Hermione was in her car, slightly dazed and breathless. She dialed Harry as she started her ignition.

“Is there something weird about this house you and Theo haven’t mentioned?” she demanded after Harry answered on the third ring.

Startled, Harry denied any knowledge. “Why?”

She explained Draco Malfoy’s insistence that she keep her work focused on the structure and not his family. "It's like he thinks I'm going to exploit him, or use what I find for some kind of shady personal gain. I don't understand it."

Harry was just as concerned as she was.

“I’ll ask Theo,” he said finally. “Maybe he knows something. He says he's known him a long time. And Ron seemed a little wary of the family, he mentioned that they’d had a big scandal ages ago, couldn’t remember about what exactly. But maybe this Malfoy guy is just really private?”

A niggling feeling in the back of her mind told her that wasn’t the case. It was more than privacy that made him demand she leave his family out of her work. Perhaps Theo or Ron could offer insight. At worst, she could turn to Dr. Binns, failing that her advisor Dr. McGonagall. Someone had to have an inkling. It was a small community, for goodness sake, didn't everyone know everyone else's business.

Hermione sighed, the air crackling through the speaker. “I’m due back Tuesday. Can Theo let me know by then?”

“I’m texting right now. You alright, Hermione?”

She caught sight of her own eyes in the rearview mirror. “Of course,” she lied.

—XXX—-

From the window in his second-floor study, Draco watched her leave the house and walk towards her vehicle, hair fluttering behind her like a caramel-colored veil. He shifted when she sank into the worn leather of the driver's seat, hoping the curtains and glare from the windows obscured him enough. But she wasn’t looking at the house, focused entirely on the small device in her palm.

It wasn’t the meeting he’d imagined. He’d been too on-edge to reign in his anxiety, and as a result, had automatically presented a standoffish front. Not ideal. No matter. There would be time to rectify that, surely. She was coming back in three day’s time. 

Peter knocked lightly on the door of the study. His bushy brow was furrowed in concern.

“What shall we do,” he started delicately. “When she returns?”

Draco blinked. “Give her the tour,” he said hollowly. “Take her to the library, let her have use of the family records.”

The manservant didn’t respond, merely twisted his hands nervously, as if waiting for his master to go on.

With an exasperated sigh, Draco turned back to the window. “There’s nothing harmful in the library, it’s all been purged. She can have her run of the house, just keep her out of here and the bedrooms. That ought to sate her.”

“But how —“

“Plan on preparing tea every day she arrives, to serve while she works. Possibly even a light supper.”

He knew without looking at Peter was still reluctant and confused. Yet he dismissed the fretful servant with a terse, “That will be all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please subscribe and review!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the review! Welcome to Chapter 3! I'm off for the holiday (Happy American Thanksgiving!) and thankful for you, my dear readers and fandom community.

Theo did not reach out to Hermione before Tuesday. Harry gave some excuses, promised to keep texting him until finally, Hermione demanded his phone number. She could have easily found his student email through the directory, but email was easy to ignore. Calls and texts were more immediate. Still, she held off, hoping that perhaps Tuesday had been a one-off. After all, there was nothing wrong with wanting privacy.

“If I’m not back by eight alert the police,” Hermione told her roommate Luna dryly as she snagged her keys from the hook by the door.

Luna, who was yet again watching an episode of _Ancient Aliens_ (a show Hermione found deeply problematic for a variety of reasons), smiled vaguely.“Your aura is bright today, I think it’ll be a fruitful day for you.”

Uncertain of the appropriate response, Hermione simply smiled.

The thirty-minute drive gave her more time to think than she’d had over the last four days. Every other moment her mental energy had been captured with thoughts of school. Graduation was coming, resumes needed to be edited and sent out into the world. She had to set up a LinkedIn profile, start considering job applications, prepare for LSAT studies. Her parents had convinced her to take a gap year between graduation and law school, sure that a year of working “in the real world” would be helpful.

“As if I’m not already in the real world,” she murmured to herself.

The more she thought about it, the more she wondered if perhaps the house merely gave her a hint of foreboding. It had been raining, dreary. The grandeur was more than expected. And the home’s owner….

Grey eyes flickered in her mind, almost ghostly. She hadn’t felt it then, but now the image of Mr. Malfoy felt familiar. Had he attended university? Perhaps been at one of the soccer parties Harry had dragged her to once, for Ron’s sake? Or maybe one of her classmates was a relative — which would be unsurprising considering that certain families were treading dangerously close to inbred territory.

The question lingered as she pulled up the drive for the second time, parking and knocking on the mahogany. The morning was cool but bright. She hoped the library would be a little airier than the rest of the house. The natural light was good for her spirits.

Once again Peter greeted her, actually opening the door this time. And once again he looked painfully awkward.

“Mr. Malfoy asked me to show you the library after a brief tour of the main rooms,” he said blandly by way of greeting after allowing her inside. “That is where the family records are kept.”

Hermione smiled weakly. “That would be lovely. Is Mr. Malfoy here?”

Peter hummed as he walked forward, presumably leading her to the library. “He is very busy today. Business keeps him occupied.”

She didn’t pry any further, though wondered what business. What other ventures had the Malfoys taken on after the closure of their mines?

They traversed a maze of corridors, Peter giving minimal commentary as they paused in the doorways of an ornate formal dining room, a music room painted a French blue, a glasshouse conservatory, going back to the green parlor she’d been to on the first day. He noted various paintings, commented on the rarity of an oriental vase painted with cranes, spoke of the hand-painted tiles that lined one of the main floor’s bathrooms. It was all lovely and dull until they reached the great hall, which was just off of the foyer she’d come through.

Hermione had to consciously keep her mouth shut as she took in the expansive room, which could have easily been a ballroom. Black marble columns melted into a marble floor, which reflected a chandelier unlike any she’d seen before. It practically dripped with crystal, sparkling like a massive diamond even when unlit. One wall was dominated by a series of windows, which looked out onto a manicured - yet somehow creepy - garden filled with barren trees and evergreen topiary. Turning to the left she faced the head of the room which hosted a massive staircase, so wide it claimed most of the wall and could easily fit four people walking across at once.

“Oh my,” she breathed as she turned, to take in the full picture.

Peter looked vaguely proud. “This is the center of the house. The Emperado marble was imported from Spain in the eighteenth century. The family once hosted a variety of parties every year.”

“They must have been the toast of the town.”

“Yes. Once upon a time.”

She didn’t ask any questions on that remark, making a mental note. “What a task it must be to clean. Do you have to hire someone to dust the chandelier?”

He appeared a little insulted by the thought. “No, the staff oversees all maintenance.”

“Oh,” was all she said. The way he said "staff" felt snobby, like he considered them beneath him. 

Peter lead her up the staircase, allowing her to pause to look back at the room in all of its glory. For a moment, she could imagine the aura of a party. Women in beaded dresses, hands moving animatedly. Flutes sparkling with champagne. Men in dark suits. Smoke and music and laughter. A haze of drunken joy. Then she blinked and the room was as it had been before.

From there they headed to the library. She was surprised when he pointed out the study where Mr. Malfoy did his work as they passed. The door was shut, but he assured her it was a proper office. She wondered how proper, in a house without internet or phone access.

The library made her even more breathless than the great hall. Two levels with beautiful walnut shelves and a high ceiling sang to her senses. She inhaled that papery scent unique to old (decaying) books. The room was cataloged by author for fictional works and subject matter for nonfiction. Each shelf had a brass plate on it describing its contents. There were winged-backed armchairs in a deep forest green scattered throughout, a large series of maps framed on the rare sections of open walls. Massive library tables with heavy pedestal feet awaited the mess of research. Peter showed her the section with the family records, including a scroll of the original blueprints. She took those hungrily, eager to spread them out on the tables he’d pointed out as ready for her use.

“I’ll be around occasionally to check on you,” he said. “But I shall leave you to work.”

“Thank you,” she called as he strode away. Peter did not acknowledge her. Annoyed but too excited by the prospect of the work that lay before her, Hermione set aside her irritation and prepared her workspace.

She pulled out family photo albums, stacked record books detailing household expenses, eyeing with particular interest a tome of old menus likely maintained by a long-dead butler. Another book appeared to be a planner maintained by a housekeeper in the 1870s. There were notebooks kept by past hostesses, outlining guest rooms use for hunting parties. A dusty green box contained a mess of newspaper clippings mentioning the family. Beneath that she found a ledger that was likely kept by the cook around the year 1901, relating to all matters food. Beside this sat a book detailing groundskeeping operations, including annual hunting records. There were documents pertaining to renovations that took place in the 1850s, detailing the cost of new wallpaper in one of the bedrooms. A few receipts for the handprinted tiles Peter had pointed out earlier. Hermione glanced at an inventory of building supplies from the original construction, knowing it would be fantastic to compare with the blueprints.

Overwhelmed, she started a list, prioritizing certain items in red ink. Below that she listed questions in green — how much was the construction? Where most materials sourced locally or did the Malfoys import more than just the decorative elements? What was the most expensive material? Was the architect from a firm that still exists and if so could she access their records? Had they built any other structures in the area?

On and on. When she finally sat back, almost a half-hour had passed since she began taking notes.

Then she needed to organize her source material. It helped to create a flow and reduce her sense of chaos. The question was chronologically? Or base on content - all housekeeping things together, all newspapers in one pile?

She supposed content would be easier to compile in the long run, though would possibly lead to distraction as she lept from one year to the next. Within another twenty minutes - valiantly averting her gaze so as to not be sucked into reading - it was all sorted, neat plies spread across two tables and the seat of one armchair.

“I suppose I ought to dive in,” she murmured to herself. Cracking her neck and stretching her limbs, she began.

Hermione did not come up for air for two hours as she carefully made her way through the documents pertaining to the construction of the house. Stopping when her hand ached from writing, she decided to walk around the library for a little break.

Trailing through a section on Egyptology — apparently a favored topic of some Malfoy ancestor — she caught the sound of the library door closing with a snap. Hermione leaned around the shelf to peer at the intruder. But there was no one there.

Without giving the matter much more thought, she turned back to a memoir of the Carnarvon expeditions. A few seconds later, the unmistakable thud of a book falling flat on the ground startled her, causing a loud gasp. The noise came from only the next row over.

Reverberation still ringing in her ears, Hermione swung around the corner with pursed lips, expecting to find Peter. She had the distinct feeling he did not trust her nor did he welcome her presence. Maybe he’d been spying and fumbled a book.

Once again, the row was empty, the floor clear of fallen tomes. Hermione frowned at the blank air. Imagining a single sound was one thing. But two was problematic.

“Too much studying,” she mused, returning to her work.

Still, she had a peculiar prickling sensation on the back of her neck for the rest of her time in the library, as though she could feel eyes boring into her.

**—XXX—**

It was dark by the time she started packing up her bag. Before leaving she attempted to find Peter or Mr. Malfoy. The manservant turned up in the conservatory, watering a few potted ferns. It seems a strange time for such a task, however, Hermione opted not comment.

“I’m heading home,” she said with forced cheer. “I left some of my work spread out in the library, I hope you don’t mind.”

Based on his expression, the mousy man did mind. But he merely nodded shortly. “It will be left alone.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

She found her way to the front doors solo, lingering to again admire the marbled great hall and the grand staircase as she passed through. Just before she reached the brass handle of the front door a quiet voice gave her a start.

“Drive safely, Hermione.” Draco Malfoy emerged from the shadowed doorway of a parlor off the foyer. His eyes were two dark bruises, only a hint of glittering light reaching out.

Hermione tightened her grip on her bag’s strap, heart pounding. Despite her host’s impassive expression, his energy was heady, magnetic. As he shifted into better light, she noted the stretch of skin bared from his unbuttoned collar, the fluttering of his pulse. She found herself longing to draw closer and run her fingers along his throat to calm the motion.

“Thank you,” she managed, swallowing as her eyes snapped back up to meet his. “I’ll — I’ll see you later this week?”

His smirk should have been irritating. “Of course." 

Once safely ensconced in her car and past the manor’s gates, Hermione spun through her contacts before finding the number Harry had shared last week. Pressing dial, she waited for thirty seconds of ringing, then the voicemail message, which advised her to leave a number.

“Theo,” she said into the receiver, grip tightening on her steering wheel. “We need to talk.”

—XXX—

On Friday, Theo finally returned her call, though clearly grudgingly. Harry might have bullied him into it after listening to Hermione grouse about Theo’s bad manners and her concerns over the manor’s “creep-factor” all morning following their shifts in the admissions office - they were both tour guides for prospective students and families. He’d been quick to insist she’d probably been tired when she’d heard the strange noises in the library. Mr. Malfoy’s evasive behavior was less easy to explain away, but Harry didn’t seem to understand Hermione’s suspicions that he was hiding something nefarious.

She’d elected to reserve judgment until she’d had a chance to talk to Theo.

“Thank you for giving me the lead,” she said. “It’s been fascinating so far.”

“Of course.” He sounded cautious. She wondered again if Harry told him off for not giving her a heads up regarding his friend’s temperament. “Happy to help.”

“I was just curious — your friend Mr. Malfoy, he’s very protective of his family’s history.”

It wasn’t a question. But she knew Theo was bright enough to hear the implied question.

“Who wouldn’t be?” Theo tried to sound casual and matter-of-fact. She could discern the smallest hint of force behind his words. “I mean when you have a legacy extending that far?”

Hermione hummed in agreement, tracing one finger against the rim of her mug. It was eight pm and she was standing in her kitchen, taking a small break from studying. She had promised to join Ginny and Luna in an hour to watch the newest episode of the dating show they were both crazy about.

“I don’t suppose you know if there is anything I should be aware of regarding Mr. Malfoy’s family? I get the impression there have been some rather awful tragedies. Just, I would hate to offend him if I were to accidentally bring something painful up. ”

The hesitation is almost palpable as Theo takes a deep breath. When he finally lets it out, it’s turned into a sigh.

“He’s been through a lot, Draco. Their family got into some bad things several generations ago and the stain hasn’t fully been washed out if you know what I mean. Can’t show his face in town. I’m surprised your friend Weasley hasn’t mentioned it.”

“Can you tell me what exactly happened?” She ignored the mention of Ron.

Another sigh, crackling through the receiver.

“I’m not entirely sure. A few mysterious deaths, from what I can tell. But no one’s lived in that house for ages. So whatever happened, it was enough for his family to nearly abandon their familial home. In crowds like ours, that's kind of a big deal.”

She knew this, but she wanted to know _why._ She’d read Narcissa Malfoy’s loving notes on her beloved rose garden, skimmed photos of glamorous parties, seen pages and pages of proof that the Malfoys loved their ancestral home. So what monumental tragedy had occurred to make them leave?

“Theo, your family has been here for ages,” she started slowly. “Do you think maybe your parents, or perhaps your grandparents, might know something?”

“My grandmother is the only one left, and she has dementia,” he said uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, Hermione. It was a long time ago.”

This brick wall was perhaps the most frustrating. Resigned, Hermione again thanked him and left the call.

Ginny’s voice drifted from the living room, where she and Luna were already sitting before the TV. “Can you bring the wine on your way in?”

Hermione smiled faintly. She wasn’t going to let this damn assignment take over her night with her friend. Placing her mug in the sink, she fetched the bottle chilling in the fridge then placed a bag of popcorn in the microwave.

“Coming,” she called. “You know, you’re going to have to catch me up. Who’s the villain this season?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely kudos and comments! I appreciate each and every one. This chapter gets into some backstory and I took a lot of liberties with the Malfoy family tree.

Her first task of the day was to build a timeline. It would help her get a scope of the changes to the house, and she could map out ownership. Corresponding any alternations or newer construction to who lived in the house would be an interesting way to present her final project. And it might answer some of her lingering questions.

The Malfoys had built the house in 1799 but had lived in the area for far longer. It seems the patriarch of the time, a Septimus Malfoy, had invested the family fortune well in an expansion of the nearby mine. Subsequently, he commissioned the construction of a grand home on their ancestral land. They’d always been rich, it seemed, but Septimus’s newfound wealth set them at an even higher level than ever before. And so the manor was built.

It was Septimus that had ordered the Spanish marble inlaid in the ballroom floor for his wife Calliope, who loved dancing. He’d doted upon her, purchasing dozens of dancing slippers between 1799 and 1805, when they began hosting massive balls. Hermione found a parchment invitation for a Christmas ball that appeared to become tradition up until 1910.

She could trace the family line from Septimus to Cassius Malfoy, a second-born son who’d survived an elder brother.Cassius appeared to be rather bookish with little interest in business, but he muddled along well enough. Cassius married a Louise Yaxley and quickly produced a daughter, Priscilla, and a son, Julius.

Julius was far less bookish and far more interested in gambling. There were many parties during Julius’s time, based on the frantic notes in the butler’s ledger. Frequent parties that made good use of the wine cellars. Julius married twice, first Ursala Prince, who gave him his heir Abraxas, then died. He remarried a Bethel Vane, who gave him a spare, Charon.

Abraxas Malfoy’s influence re-established the family coffers following Julian’s neglect. He married a neighbor, Artemisia Rowle. They had one child, Lucius, and from what Hermione found he took after his father. The family business had flourished under his care. He was the one who had designed the current gardens for his wife, Narcissa, who was an avid gardener.

Hermione was taken with their portraits. Her favorite was likely from their wedding — Narcissa stood behind her husband, dressed in a beautiful gown with a soft sheen, probably satin or silk. The wide collar edged with lace showed off her delicate shoulders. She wore her hair up, a cascade of curls falling softly behind her. She held a bouquet of roses, matching the flower attached to her husband’s collar with a pearl-tipped pin. Lucius Malfoy’s light eyes were almost ghostly in the black and white print, but they appeared bright and happy. His right hand rested on his new wife’s, which was draped on his broad shoulder.

A few pages on was another photo of the couple with a chubby toddler between them. They both appeared older but just as happy. The baby had hair so fair it could have been white — the Malfoy trademark. His soft baby face held no other trace of his heritage, but she suspected he would grow into a pointed nose and chin, like his father’s.

Lucius and Narcissa had only one child, Draco Lucius Malfoy. Hermione struggled to find much on him, and the only photos were from early childhood. She thought perhaps he might have died at a young age because there was no mention of him after 1911 — then again, there was no mention of much in the family records after 1911.

With that thought, Hermione reached for her laptop. She’d requested death certificates for the whole family going back to the earliest available. Thankfully the city’s clerk must have been without much going on, for she’d gotten them only two weeks after submitting her request. There were some gaps — a number missing from people who had died outside of the area. She hadn’t looked too closely then, but now she pulled up the PDFs, searching for the last of the Malfoys to reside in the house.

Lucius had died in 1942 from a heart condition, his wife following him seven years later. Hermione wondered if perhaps the Draco Malfoy she knew was a great-nephew or cousin to Lucius? Perhaps a great-great-grandchild to Charon Malfoy?

She paused when she reached the page for Draco Lucius Malfoy, then froze. He _had_ died in 1911, in the spring. But his cause of death was a black smear of ink.

Hermione sat back, brain whirring.

Lucius and Narcissa lost their only son in some mysterious way. They wanted to forget that depressing period of time, so they abandoned their home. That made sense. A heartbreaking loss, of course, they wouldn’t want to linger if he’d died here, and terribly. Had it been an accident in the house? A prolonged terminal illness?She considered asking Mr. Malfoy but decided against it. That would likely not “pertain to the history of the structure.”

It was only a theory, but it led to more questions. What had killed the first Draco Malfoy? And how was the one hosting her now related to that Draco?

She turned back to her family timeline, clicking the top of her pen thoughtfully.

There wasn’t much for family records after the early 50s. Mostly bills for groundskeeping and the like. Nothing with too much personality. A few instances of the house opening up to host the family for brief vacations. Little else. She’d need to revisit the clerk’s office to find records indicating who owned the house between 1949 and now.

She stood, stretching. This was a great deal of fun, but she had long ago passed the threshold for “school assignment.”

Needing fuel to keep piecing together her timeline, she was about to dig for the granola bar in the bottom of her backpack when the creak of the library door caused her to jump up.

As if by magic Peter appeared with a cup of tea and a small plate of shortbread. “Mr. Malfoy advised me to bring you refreshment.”

While startled, Hermione thanked him sincerely.

“Sorry, I’ve gotten in pretty deep.” She grinned. “This is all very fascinating, a person could lose hours to going over family records like this.”

Peter pursed his thin lips. “Will that be all, Miss Granger?”

“Er, yes. Thank you!”

Receiving a mere nod of the head in response, he crept back out of the room.

Nibbling on her biscuits, Hermione wondered what he must think of her. Clearly, the manservant was very protective of the family. Or perhaps he was simply a snob, displeased at having to deal with a scruffy college student.

“As long as he keeps bringing me snacks, I suppose I’ll put up with it,” she murmured.

The tea was quite good, too. He’d doctored it just as she liked it, a splash of cream and no sugar. Had Mr. Malfoy taken note of that at their first meeting and told Peter? The thought made her feel strangely warm, remember that she’d taken note of his preference too.

With her timeline somewhat underway, Hermione turned to her to-do list. Would Mr. Malfoy possibly let her take scans of a few photos? It would really round out her project….

She jotted this question in her notebook down before turning back to her piles.

The housekeeper’s calendar from 1905 interested her a great deal. A little mundane, the woman kept a thorough record of all the house’s comings and going. One pattern in particular had caught Hermione’s eye. There were a number of dates with the phrase, _Serpentine Club, 7 pm,_ written and circled. As though it was important.

Hermione typed _Serpentine Club_ into the search bar of her computer. The first result was a running club based in London. Then a swimming club. Sotheby’s had a type of boxy armchair listed. Finally, a herpetology club at a local school. But nothing relevant to the Edwardian period.

Sighing, Hermione murmured, “How did I know this wouldn’t be easy?”

—XXX—

The great hall was hazy, the light of the chandelier low. She could make out shadowy figures moving against the marble — the shimmer of beaded dresses, broad shoulders, glare off of crystal-cut glasses. Gliding down the stairs didn’t seem to bring any of them closer and even when she was level the party felt halfway across the expansive room.

When she looked left, a wall of black mirrors reflected her own image — a girl dressed in an old-fashioned blue dress that reached the floor, cut close to her figure, her hair swept up. She couldn’t see any of the other party-goers in the reflection. However, there was a lone figure behind her.

With a turn of her heels, she found herself facing a man nearly two heads taller. Hermione could not contain a small shriek, which the man did not acknowledge. He wore an eerie Death’s head mask. The yellowed bone dipped as he took her in.

_“And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall.”_

Without a word, he took up her hands and they were suddenly in the middle of the smokey crowd, the clink of glasses and tinkle of laughter, spinning. Shadowed faces passed as they swirled. She could only make out the hollow, glowing eyes of the other partygoers. No one seemed disturbed by the sight of Death, despite the fact he was the only one to wear a mask.

Her legs moved of their own accord in time with faint music. Death spun her out and when she returned back into his embrace, her back to his chest, in the reflection of the windows her partner had changed. She was in Mr. Malfoy’s arms and the Death’s head was his white-blond hair, his eyes stormy slate.

Hermione gasped and stumbled. He held her to him, preventing her from falling to the floor. With a vice-like grip, he guided her back into a dance. They swirled once, twice around the room at a breakneck pace.

“I don’t know this dance,” she murmured, looking past his shoulder.

“I’ll teach you,” he promised softly. "But you're doing very well."

Suddenly he jolted forward, as though impacted by a sudden force. She could hear a loud ringing. Taking the opportunity, Hermione twisted out of his grasp, almost slipping on the marble tiles —

— tiles which were glossy with blood.

Hermione tried to scream but the sound refused to leave her mouth, only a wet gurgle. She looked in the mirror-windows and against the sheen of black glass saw herself. The dress was no longer blue, the front soaked in something dark and sticky. Her throat was weeping from a slash that ran across her skin like a choker. Malfoy loomed behind her, reaching for shoulders —

.

.

.

A shadow stood over her, silhouetted in blackness, pulsing as a limb reached out. The pain in her ears shrieked like a kettle sounding off until it peaked to nothingness. She gasped, startling and the shadowed moved away.

An audible click sounded. Light flooded the library. Mr. Malfoy stood before her, his quartz eyes wide with something akin to fear, his fingers still on the switch of the Tiffany lamp at the end of the desk. Hermione jerked upright, sending papers and books flying.

“You were screaming,” he whispered.

She felt her face heat. “I-I’m sorry, I must have — I fell asleep.” And after a pause, “And apparently overturned a teacup.”

Thankfully nothing except Hermione had gotten wet -- there had only been a few dregs left at the bottom of the anyways. She sighed over the sleeve of her damp sweater before turning back to Draco, whose lips were quirked in amusement. The fear in his eyes had faded.

“Given your concern over your wool, I’ll assume you are hale.”

“Yes, thank you.” She rubbed her temples. “Bad dream. I’m fine.”

“Sounds like it was quite a scare.” Draco’s expression was calculating like he was trying to discern what it was she’d dreamt without prying too much. She suspected he wasn’t used to having to have things spelled out for him, that most people jumped to appease him when given even the slightest encouragement.

“Do you often have bad dreams?”

“Only when I’ve passed out over a research project,” she replied cheekily.

His eyes glinted dangerously. “What was so frightening, Hermione?”

She thought back to the Death’s head, suppressing a shudder.

“Oh, semi-finals are coming up. I dreamt I came to my geography class and the maps looked all wrong. Like it was a whole other planet,” she lied seamlessly.

To her surprise, he laughed.

“Your reading material is dry enough I suppose it is no surprise you would have fallen asleep.” For once he did not appear so remote. Draco finished piling up the papers and books, setting them cautiously away from the puddle that sat in the middle of the table. “But it’s late too. Nearly half seven.”

She let out a small shriek. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I have definitely trespassed, I meant to leave at four. I’m so sorry —“

He waved his hand. “It’s no trouble. You’ve clearly become quite engrossed. I actually came to see if you were interested in dinner since you elected to stay so long. Peter thought you might be hungry.”

That was probably untrue — Peter clearly hated her and likely wouldn’t be pleased she’d thrown a wrench in his carefully planned dinner. She had assumed his master’s feelings were similar, but based on the way he was looking at her right now she wondered if that was still the case. 

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Hermione began weakly.

“Not at all. Peter always makes triple portions anyways, if anything you’d be doing us a favor.”

His sudden warmth struck her immediately as suspicious. But she was hungry. It was late, she’d missed lunch. Maybe he even felt guilty for his initial interactions with her, all of his sneering and snapping.

Sensing her hesitation, he added, “It’s pot pie.”

Her favorite, which felt even more suspicious. Had he asked Theo, who had in turn ask Harry? Or was it just a coincidence? Pot pie seemed so pedestrian for so fine a house. Peasant food.

Her stomach rumbled, issuing its vote. Hermione decided to let her paranoia have the night off.

“That sounds lovely,” she said finally.

Draco grinned and led her out of the library.

—XXX—

He could not stop staring at the jewels that adorn her neck. Six small garnet teardrops strung on a silver chain so fine it was almost difficult to discern, a modest everyday piece. They resembled a slash of blood. The sight against the smooth flesh of her throat unsettled him.

“A gift, from Harry,” she said offhandedly when she notices him staring. “From Christmas.”

“They’re lovely” he managed. Hopefully, he does not appear too terribly haunted. Or too interested in her neck.

“I’m not usually one to wear jewelry,” Hermione admitted after a long sip from her glass. “But he’s got a lot of these things from his family and I think it pleases him to hand them out occasionally. Otherwise, they just sit in his safe deposit box. This is at least something that isn’t so ostentatious it can only be worn at a royal wedding.”

Draco chuckled at the joke, but he did not stop looking at the pseudo-wound that sat against her warm skin throughout the rest of their meal.

—XXX—-

The plan had been to leave as soon as Peter took the dishes. However, she still had half a glass of wine — a crisp Riesling, the best she’d ever tasted — and Draco had casually offered to show her the gallery on the third floor.

“We have a few family pieces you might find of interest.”

Hook, line, and sinker. Hermione’s eyes glowed at the prospect. With her glass in hands, she warned, “Only for a few minutes. I’ve already overstayed.”

“Nonsense,” Draco claimed her other arm, guiding her out of the informal dining room and towards the grand staircase. The gesture surprised her, but she allowed it.

The third floor was dark when they reached it. Draco flipped a switch, causing a series of sconces to flicker alive. This wing was clearly dedicated to art more so than any other. The walls were tastefully packed with canvas — portraiture, still life, sweeping landscapes. Hermione found herself drifting from her host’s hold to examine one impressionist’s rendering of a tranquil pool and willows.

“One of my ancestors was quite the collector. They bought more than most of our walls could bear, so this section of the house was dedicated to displaying what didn’t fit elsewhere. An informal gallery, of sorts.”

“It’s lovely,” she breathed, moving to look at a stark Dutch scenery. “Your ancestors had taste. You said there were a few family pieces?”

He nodded towards a watercolor set between two of the tall windows. Hermione recognized it as the very house they stood in — the color sunnier than its current grime-wash, flowers accompanying the greenery at the front, smoke spilling cheerily out of the chimney in fat puffs of grey.

“One of my great aunts was rather artistic,” he said. “She made a number of watercolors of the house and the grounds. One of my favorites is in a guest room, it’s a view of the pergolas in full bloom and one of her sisters walking through them.”

“How charming.”

He smiled faintly. “I am continually disappointed not to have inherited some of her talents.”

“Are you an aspiring artist?” Hermione teased.

“Isn’t everyone?” Draco moved along the hall, pausing to look at a canvas heavily lacquered in oils before moving on to some framed sketches. “It is so tempting to give oneself up to self-expression, even on the best of days.”

Hermione gently bumped shoulders with his as she joined him before the sketches. “Very philosophical.”

“A surprising amount of depth?”

She pursed her lips.

Draco rolled his eyes. “I know our first impression of one another was less than…warm.”

“Well, we’ve gotten over that, I think,” she said lightly. “You aren’t so formidable, Mr. Malfoy.”

He slipped his arm into hers again, pulling her closer. It was strangely forward. Perhaps it was the wine, but she couldn’t bring herself to protest. “And neither are you, Hermione Granger.”

If she was the type to blush, Hermione might have turned crimson. Instead, she focused on the loose motion of the charcoal on stark white paper and took another sip of her Riesling.

**\---XXX---**

A little later the clock struck ten and Hermione jumped.

“I truly must get home,” she said as the tones echoed throughout the house, reminding everyone of the late hour.

Draco, arm still wound around hers, escorted her down the staircase once more. Hermione was taking in how the great hall appeared at night when a flicker of movement to her left gave her pause. She glanced towards the window.

Her reflection gazed back, weeping as her pale hands rose to clutch her throat, glossy black blood making a waterfall against her chest.

Hermione screamed and stumbled, missing the next step. She would have toppled down to the bottom and landed on cold marble had not Draco made to grab her, steadying them both before helping to lower her down to sit on a step.

“Are you alright?”

Looking back at the glass, she saw merely herself and Draco between the outline of the banisters.

“Y-yes,” she managed. “Sorry, I — something in the window distracted me. A bit too much wine, perhaps. But I am safe to drive,” she added hastily.

Draco followed her eyes, frowning. Clearly, he saw the same reflection she did. Thankfully, instead of questioning her further, he helped her stand and make her way down the stairs.

Once downstairs, she remembered she’d left the wine glass on a credenza upstairs. He assured her it was no problem but again asked if she was alright.

“Nothing twisted or broken? You can stay the night if need be. Peter can have a room made up for you in minutes.”

The thought of spending the night was nearly as mortifying as the image she’d seen only minutes before. Hermione fervently assured him she was well, merely cursed with clumsiness.

“If you are sure.” Draco appeared unconvinced. “Aside from your near-death experience, this was a lovely evening.”

“Yes,” she agreed, realizing it actually had been. To her surprise, she’d fully enjoyed the three hours they’d spent in one another’s company. “Thank you, so much. You’ve been — a wonderful host. I am very grateful.”

“Perhaps we may do it again sometime, should you lose track of time in your studies.” The way his eyes glistened with mischief made her shiver.

“I will try to be more diligent in the future,” Hermione replied dryly as she pulled on her jacket and scooped her backpack up from the hat tree beside the door.

“I should hope not,” Draco said softly as he held the door open for her. "You're welcome anytime, Hermione."

She lingered on the first step for a moment, looking back at her enigmatic host. “Thank you, Draco.”

And then she fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got some more creepy goings on! The quote is from Edgar Allen Poe's "Masque of Red Death," because I am a sucker for Poe and it's something I've had on my mind a lot lately in light of the pandemic.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the lovely comments and kudos!

“Malfoy Manor?” Binns blinked owlishly from behind his thick lenses. “My, what an intriguing subject. I’d be keen to know if you’re able to get in touch with anyone in the family. No one’s lived there in generations.”

Hermione frowned. “You must be mistaken, sir. I’ve been in contact with the most recent owner,” she said. “And he currently resides there.”

Binns hummed. “Curious! Last I had heard it was totally abandoned. Well, I am glad such a distinguished property is no longer languishing. I supposed a cousin of some sort finally took the reins. Tell me, what have you found so far?”

She passed her notes and copies of her photos across the desk. He was delighted to find she’d been allowed inside the manor, looking over her pictures with reverence.

“Professor Slughorn, in the chemistry department, would be green with envy to know you’d been inside,” Binns chuckled. “You know, he is fond of networking with local families and the Malfoy family would be the jewel in his crown. They were once quite the name around here.”

After several more moments of reviewing her research, Binns settled back in his worn office chair, lacing his bony fingers together. “It seems as though you’ve made good headway, Hermione, though I would expect nothing less. What do you need from me?”

“Context, I suppose,” Hermione explained the missing records and the reluctance for the current master to share oral histories. “I know that the assignment is to focus on the structure, but I find myself rather frustrated with my lack of knowledge regarding the last hundred years. I understand something dreadful occurred in the 1910s.I’ve surmised it had something to do with the death of the heir, but no one seems willing to help me fill in the gaps. ”

“I’m not surprised,” her professor said, tone suddenly grave. “It’s a dark spot in our history.”

Biting her lip, Hermione lifted the pile of photos off the desk. She looked at the top one, a longshot of the great hall, showing off the marble floors and the grand staircase. “Does this have to do with the Serpentine Club?”

Binn’s laugh was dry. He didn’t ask how she knew the name. “They might have presented themselves as a club, but they were as good as a cult. Or a gang. It was presented as a fashionable gentleman’s league. They met often at the Malfoy Manor, but Lucius Malfoy wasn’t the ring leader. That was Tom Riddle.”

The gravity with which the name said suggested it should have meant something to her. She scanned her memory trying to recall if the surname belonged to any of the prominent local families. After a moment she shook her head.

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t know it. It’s practically taboo nowadays. He disappeared sometime in the 1930s, but the memories have lingered.” Turning to the bookshelf behind him, Binns withdrew a plastic binder, flipping through several pages before passing it across the desk. The two pages were covered in photos, but her eye was drawn to an image on the bottom left corner. A sketch of a skull, complete with black pits for eyes, a mottled snake slithering from its jaws.

“Their crest,” Binns said before pointing to the black and white photo across the page.

About a dozen men posed for the camera, lounging in what appeared to be a smoking room. She noted the names in the caption, seeing a lot of familiar ones. Lestrange, Black, Avery, Nott, Yaxley, Prince, Bulstrode, Rowle, Crabbe, Goyle, Flint. She paused at the tell-tale blonde head of a Malfoy, realizing it was likely Lucius, older than she’d seen him before. It struck her that he greatly resembled the Draco she knew - the same pale hair and light eyes, pointed features. Draco at least looked a little less forbidding. She let her eyes linger on him for a moment before turning her attention to the central figure of the image.

Tom Riddle, a man who had likely died long before her birth, stole her breath. He didn’t sit as much as lord over the room, his posture relaxed but far from lazy. A smirk played across his lips. Even in the faded photo, his eyes gleamed, darkly promising. She felt the urge to reach out and push the wing of raven hair across his hair back from his brow.

“What did they do?” she asked suddenly. “In this club?”

“Ruled the town.” Binns shrugged. “Schemed. They were all prominent in local government and business. Lucius owned the nearby mine - it shuttered in the 20s - but there was quite some contention when the workers began rumbling about unionizing. The Serpentine Club was almost certainly behind the campaign of terror against the strike leaders - the Weasleys, the MacMillians, the Longbottoms, the Abbots, the Bones, the Potters, and the Dumbledores. There were suspicious deaths, arrests, threats…the Dumbledores and Longbottoms both lost family when pipe bombs were thrown through their front windows. The Prewitt family had two sons end up in prison upstate for some arson charges they undoubtedly framed for.”

Eyes wide, Hermione sat back. “It was war.”

“Indeed,” Binns nodded. “It all came ahead when the Malfoy heir died in the middle of the Malfoy ballroom after one of their meetings. That’s when it seemed to fall apart. Within years the mine shuttered - without unionizing - then Tom Riddle was briefly imprisoned on tax evasion. They say one of the Dumbledores, who was a prosecutor by that time, was able to pin that on him, at least. His club fell apart shortly after. There was a brief resurgence when he was released in 1925. But he disappeared in the 30s. It’s supposed that he came into the knowledge that some evidence of his past crimes was in danger of coming into light and he was at risk of going away for good.”

“Draco died in the house?” She pictured dancing in the ballroom, in the arms of Death. Had she subconsciously known?

“Oh yes.” Bins thumbed through the binder, eyes narrowing as he scanned pages. “It was quite the controversy. Never really clear on the cause, but I theorize it has something to do with the damnable cult his father was a part of.Some think it was murder at the hands of the crew looking to unionize, that they'd targeted the manor on a night when the Serpentine Club was known to meet. But that never seemed plausible to me. The Malfoys moved away shortly after. I don’t think his mother could stand to be in the place.”

He pushed the binder back her way, revealing a yellowed newspaper clipping so fragile it is protected between sheets of plastic. _Malfoy Son Shot in Home Robbery_ the headline screamed in bold black.

_The fatal wound struck the heir around 12:45am Wednesday night after young Mr. Draco Malfoy, 21, went to investigate a sound in the family’s dining room. He was found in the family’s great hall after the sounds of gunshots roused his parents, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. A doctor was summoned, but young Mr. Malfoy ultimately succumb to his wounds._

_The would-be thieves are still at large. Chief of Police Cornelius Fudge issued a statement Thursday morning, stating that the young man passed surrounded by family at 4 a.m. this morning. The police believe that the criminals might still be in the area and that the crime could possibly be related to the family’s recent business dealings. The elder Mr. Malfoy’s mines have endured controversy as workers have sought to unionized._

_“It is appalling to think a man could be slain in his own home,” said neighbor Lucretia Black. “All because his family wants to keep their business stable, instead of giving in to the whims of their workers. What is next? Are we all to be shot in our ballrooms?_

_Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Lucius Malfoy were available for comment. Services for Mr. Draco Malfoy will take place this coming Tuesday and he will be interred in the family crypt.”_

“Could I make a copy of this?” she asked the second she set the binder down.

“I’d be happy to give you scans of the whole binder.”

—-XXX—

The library in the center of campus was practically Hermione’s second home. She had a sunny spot at one of the tables on the third floor, far from the sharp eye of Pince, the librarian. Today it was rather empty — unsurprising considering it was a Friday afternoon. Most people would be getting an early start to the weekend. It was a luxury she rarely afforded herself.

She scrolled through the scans of Binn’s binder, taking the time to read through every newspaper clipping. Hermione was kicking herself for not going to him sooner, all of this information would have been incredibly helpful. Some of what she found were copies of the same documents she’d studied at the manor. Public records mostly, building permits and the like. There was plenty more about the mines, clippings about strikes, the minutes from multiple city council meetings that appeared to be tense gatherings. Nothing particularly striking, but good information.

It was at the bottom of an article about a Lucius Malfoy hiring outside of town to fill in the strikers’ positions. Just a snippet — the rest of the page had been clipped. She only saw the headline and the lede.

 _Governess Missing,_ it read. _The Abbotts reported their beloved governess, a Miss Viola Shaw, failed to return to their family home after taking an afternoon stroll last week. “It is unlike -“_

There the page cut off.

Hermione stood without thought. Microfiche. The school had an archive of city newspapers going back to the 1800s. She could surely find the rest of this article.

It didn’t hit her until she was sitting down at the machine why the article had inspired such fervent need. Sometimes her brain’s instinct acted before her thoughts fully formed. The date at the top. It was mere days before Draco Lucius Malfoy’s death.

Ten minutes of scrolling got her to the right paper and the right page.

“ _The Abbotts reported their beloved governess, a Miss Viola Shaw, 21, failed to return to their family home after taking an afternoon stroll last week._

_‘It is unlike our dear Miss Shaw to vanish,’ Mrs. Cora Abbot told the press. ’She is a very reliable girl with a good head on her shoulders and is so dedicated to our dear Freddy and Eliza. We fear the worst.’_

_Miss Shaw was last seen walking near Everly Road on Sunday afternoon, bearing a basket and a book. She wore a blue day dress. Her hair is light brown, curly, and she stands around 5ft 4in with brown eyes. She is not of the area, having moved into town two years ago to care for the Abbot children. Anyone with any information is encouraged to come to the police.”_

Hermione spent an hour looking at papers from the two following years but did not find another mention of the missing governess. Her loss had been overshadowed by the death of the Malfoy heir and the closing of the mines, then the lead up to the First World War. Had she been completely overlooked? How was it Binns did not mention her? A young woman going missing so close to a possible murder was surely worth looking at?

Next, she went back to her computer. She searched the name but came up with a dentist and then a realtor. There were no photos on the image search that could feasibly be Shaw. Find A Grave also failed to show where Viola Shaw’s earthly remains ended up, making her fear the girl had never been found.

Coming up short was not something Hermione was used to. At eight p.m. she finally left the library, a new weight on her shoulders. Viola Shaw had nothing to do with her assignment, but her disappearance was an itch Hermione found herself needing to scratch. It was so close to the death of the first Draco Malfoy and the shuttering of the house. No way it could be a coincidence, not in a small community such as this. There was a connection, somewhere.

She pondered all of this on her walk to her apartment, only breaking concentration when Luna gently reminded her she was late to dinner with Harry and Ron.

—XXX—

The pizza parlor on the square was retro, with black and white tiles, puffy red vinyl booths, chrome covering the bar that overlooked the ovens. Harry and Ron had claimed a back booth and didn’t seem to even notice she was ten minutes late. She sank into the pleather seat with relief, already feeling her stomach rumble.

Harry had taken the liberty of ordering her a Diet Coke and she immediately took a long drink, savoring the cool sweetness as she listened to Ron grouse about his latest tiff with Lavender. Something about him not noticing a new haircut. She’d learned long ago to hum along in agreement whenever he paused to ask for validation.

The exaggerated complaints paused when Rosemerta, the parlor’s owner, swung by to take their order. It was unnecessary to discuss - always one cheese, which suited everyone, then a half veggie-half pepperoni. Harry and Hermione split the vegetable side and Ron had the pepperonis all to himself.

When she left Harry took the opportunity to tell them about a recent visit from his godfather. Sirius had grown up in town and was from the Black family, one of the most influential names. He’d since moved but grudgingly came back to see his beloved godson.

“He’s gotten a new motorbike,” Harry said with a grin. “It’s very cool.”

“Oh Harry, you didn’t ride it did you?”

“I might have,” he said. “And I might be thinking of getting my own. I can hardly cling to the back of his like a girlfriend.”

The thing was, Harry could easily buy a motorbike, unlike most college students. The loss of his parents had given him a tidy inheritance. He didn’t touch it, mostly, using small chunks here and there for school. Sirius was actually the one who held it in trust until Harry reached twenty-five, but he was hardly withholding. And if anyone were to let Harry buy a stupidly expensive, risky thing….

“They’re so dangerous!” Hermione cried.

“They’re so cool,” Ron sighed, eyes glazed over.

“He’ll be driving your little sister on it,” she reminded him.

This seemed to sway something in Ron, who had the grace to look vaguely uncomfortable and say, “Maybe a car instead, mate.”

Good-naturedly, Harry changed the subject. “How is your project going? Theo says his friend seems pleased to have you over. You didn’t say the bloke was near our age.”

She prayed her blush was not very pronounced. “He’s been very generous with me.”

Ron scowled. “Hopefully not too generous.”

“Ron!”

Harry’s lips pursed in an attempt to hide a smile. “Theo suggested that this Malfoy fellow might want to see you even after your term project is finished.”

Glossing over the implication that Draco enjoyed her company, she told them all about the strange history she’d learned from Binns, admitting that she’d sort of abandoned the goals of the assignment. She kept back what she’d learned about the missing governess, thinking it might be a red herring. Hermione also refrained from sharing the creepy dream about dancing in a bloody ballroom, or the fact that sometimes she felt watched while in the house, opting to instead throw them both a bone and grudgingly admit to eating dinner with Draco.

They listened with interest, Harry eating while Ron - strangely - watched her speak with wide brown eyes, not touching his half of the pizza.

“I told you they’re trouble,” Ron blurted when she took a breath.

“Ron, they haven’t even lived in the area in a century.”

“Doesn’t matter. My great uncle Bill, he knew. He courted one of the Abbotts once — you know Hannah? Her grandmother, I think — and they talked about how their nanny was secretly seeing the Malfoy boy —“

Hermione’s blood went cold.

“— and shortly before he died, she went missing. Vanished one day, they think she was on her way to see him. And then a few days later he died. And that whole club of theirs, the Snakes or whatever, they fell apart soon after. It’s all very fishy, isn’t it?”

She inhaled. “What did your uncle think happened?”

Ron thought for a moment. “He said that she must have known something. And the family did away with her. Then he felt so guilty he killed himself.”

“Starcrossed lovers,” she murmured to herself.

Shaking his head, Ron barked a laugh. “Doubtful. More likely he tricked the girl into his bed. You don’t know what these people are like, Hermione. Too rich for their own good. It’s like they live in an entirely different world. They don’t ‘love’ anyone but themselves.” He used air quotes around the word “love.”

Hermione shook her head. “They’re not all the same, Ron. I know you had trouble with Crabbe and Goyle growing up, but a person’s family name doesn’t automatically make them evil. Look at Theo.”

Wisely, Ron held back from making a snide remark about Theo Nott.

Harry paused in his pizza consumption. “Hermione, do you like him?”

“What?” She was distracted by thoughts of murder.

“This Malfoy fellow?”

“I hardly think that is relevant,” she said primly.

Harry exchanged a glance with Ron. “It would be rather difficult to go out with someone whose ancestor was possibly a murderer.”

She flushed. “That’s not what — I wouldn’t — it would be unprofessional! And besides, Mr. Malfoy certainly doesn’t — doesn’t think of me that way.”

“Theo said you had dinner last week? Just you and him? This Malfoy bloke is already leagues ahead of most fellows. Cormac didn’t even get a proper coffee date. Viktor only got a few hours spent studying together in the library before he had to return to Bulgaria. You turned Nevill down totally, but you’ve already had a proper dinner date with this Malfoy fellow?”

“Only because I lost track of time.” She hoped her exasperation didn’t sound desperate. “It would have been rude of him not to ask, honestly. He was just being polite”

None of this was persuading Harry. Her protests were, however, clearly distressing Ronald, who was reddening with every word. When he reached the color of a beet Harry finally seemed to decide it was time to stop teasing, patting Ron on the back sympathetically after suggesting they all go on a triple date. Hermione also did not find the jest funny, though not the reason’s Harry might assume. With little grace, she changed the subject, asking Ron about how his classes were going, another topic that was bound to result in several minutes of moaning.

“Working in that massive house all alone is rather creepy,” she admitted later as they left the pizza shop, her arm tucked in Harry’s. It was still cold outside; she was grateful for his warmth and his offer to walk her to her car. “Honestly, all the strange noises…I know it’s common in old houses, but creepy nonetheless.”

“You sure it isn’t haunted?” Harry wiggled his eyebrows. “Sounds like the perfect candidate for ghosts.”

She lightly pushed his shoulder. “Harry Potter, you’re a goose. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this was terribly delayed. Life has been getting a little nuts. Please enjoy.

The day was perfectly overcast for some photos. She only had her phone, but with the right angles, it shouldn’t be too difficult to capture a few decent images of the Manor. Binns mentioned in their last class that he wanted current and past photos of the structures they are covering for their class presentations. At the mention of presentations, a few eyes went extremely wide. Hermione had the smug satisfaction of knowing that she’d thoroughly read the syllabus. It was a wonderful feeling.

Draco found her setting up her tripod in the back garden, trying for a wide shot of the rear of the house.

“You’ve got good light,” he said by way of greeting.

She smiled faintly. “It feels impossible not to get a good shot of this house. It’s gorgeous.”

“She has her flaws.”

“Don’t we all?

After a few more pictures he spoke again. “Peter was just setting up some mid-morning tea, I wondered if you’d join me.”

Startled, Hermione nearly gave herself whiplash looking up at him. “Oh, I’d hate to —“

“He’s going to pile the tray with sandwiches and biscuits, Hermione,” he said mock-seriously. “And it would quite the endeavor for a single man to handle eating them all alone. Besides, I thought we were past all this’ I don’t want to impose’ nonsense. You’re not imposing.”

With that, she softened slightly. It was only tea. And she only needed to be present for thirty minutes or so.

The real trouble was she _wanted_ to spend time with him, and not just to pester with questions about his family history. Draco’s charisma was strangely appealing. Their dinner together had proven to be pleasant, and she had realized she enjoyed his company. Not just enjoyed, looked forward to the opportunity to see him again. But that desire felt….unprofessional. She was here to work, not be charmed by the manor’s elusive master.

“Sounds lovely,” she managed.

Though there was a brisk spring chill, Peter served them on the veranda overlooking the rose garden. The iron table on which plates and cups were spread was chipped and rusted in places. It, like many other elements of the house, had seen much better days.

The orange blossom tea pair nicely with the peach jam served with the scones. Hermione nibbled on a cucumber sandwich, grateful for the invitation. She’d rushed out to the manor following her volunteer shift with the honors fraternity earlier in the morning — trash pick up along one of the roads leading into town.

“You look flushed,” he said offhandedly as he poured them both cups into the same bone china she’d seen her first afternoon here. “Are you cold? We can go indoors.”

“Oh, no,” Hermione assured him. “Just a little exerted, that’s all. It’s been a busy morning. But the fresh air is helpful.”

Draco nodded in agreement. He looked cozy in a lightweight blue sweater that made is eyes look like the ocean before a storm. Self-conscious, Hermione looked away. Sometimes it was difficult to look at him.

They spoke a little of her project, but Draco mostly spoke of the garden. It wasn’t much this time of year, but in the summer it was apparently quite a sight. The pergola was draped with a flowering hydrangea that perfumed the whole area. When it was warmer the fountains were particularly spectacular against the sunset. He recounted sitting on the stone balustrade with a book many an afternoon.

“I can hardly believe you’d willingly go into the sun,” she giggled. “I mean, don’t you burn to a crisp with that fair skin?”

Mock offense colored his tone. “I’ll have you know Malfoy men tan very nicely.”

Hermione snorted. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Her words gave him a small smile. “Perhaps this summer,” he conceded quietly. “I wouldn’t be opposed to hosting you after your assignment has finished.”

She nearly dropped her cup. Blinking, Hermione lowered the china carefully. “I might not be around,” she admitted. “My post-graduation plans are still a little muddy, but if everything works out I’m probably going to move away. I’m taking a gap year or two before going on with my education.”

His brows rose at this. “And what are you hoping to study?”

“Law, maybe.” She twisted her lips half-heartedly. As graduation loomed, the prospect felt less and less appealing. Despite having dreamed most of her life of a career in law, helping the less fortunate battle injustice, she found herself feeling out of sorts at the idea of a life behind a desk or in the middle of a courtroom. “My history degree has really prepared me for a lot of studying and memorization.”

Draco took a long drink, giving Hermione the chance to change the subject.

“What’s it like living in such an empty house? I can picture it would get lonely.”

“Sometimes,” Draco allowed. “I keep myself occupied.”

“Have you ever thought about, I don’t know, turning this place into a business? An Airbnb or something? I know you value your privacy,” she said quickly. “But I expect there are ways of doing it while maintaining boundaries.”

He gave a sort of laugh. “No, that’s not my style. And I think my ancestors would roll in their graves. Besides, I have no doubt it would require a great deal of renovation.”

“Is the house truly so out of date?”

“Yes, we barely have electricity. Theo likely told you we don’t even have a phone line. The time we spoke on the phone we were using Theo’s phone.”

Hermione shook her head. “It’s astounding you have gotten around to modernizing.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare,” he said casually, sipping his tea. “Most of these rooms have gone untouched for years, save for Peter’s cleaning. It’s like a museum.”

Hermione wondered what exactly “years” meant — decades? a century? — but didn’t ask.

“I can see why. There is a lot of character to this place, I would fear ruining it by changing too much.”

Draco nodded in agreement. “There is a lot of history in these walls.”

They continued their conversation, moving on to other topics. But Hermione’s mind kept coming back to the admission that most of the rooms hadn’t been touched in presumably decades. The knowledge left her considering what, exactly, that might mean for her investigation.

After nearly an hour, Draco rose from the table. He had business to attend, he explained, so he’d be locked in his study all afternoon.

“Peter will attend to you should you require anything.” This was said lazily, as he led her indoors. “He’s not pleased with the mess you’ve made of my library, you know.”

“Yes, I’ve gathered as much. I promised I’ll put it all back. I certainly don’t want to leave him more work.” She knew his voice well enough by now to recognize a tease over an admonishment.

Draco shrugged carelessly. “He’s got little else to do.”

This seemed cruel to Hermione, but she didn’t protest. Instead, she watched as her host headed up the staircase of the great hall, wondering how long she had to wait before she could start poking around.

—XXX—

It was a blessing that the room was unlocked. She’d assumed Peter would have kept most of the place under lock and key, but it was the third bedroom she’d tried and was met with no resistance. Then again, those were clearly not occupied.

This bedroom was different. She knew within a few horrified seconds that she was in a room that was regularly in use — and worse yet, in use by the home’s owner.

A half-full water carafe sat on one of the bedside tables. A pair of shoes sat in front of the wardrobe, as though they’d just been slipped out of. The most damning evidence was right before her.A plush bathrobe, slung on the back of a desk chair centered to the window directly facing the door. Golden threads glinted in a light, an unmistakable monogram. _DM_ in a cursive script.

“Damnit,” she breathed as she pressed her back to the door.

Hermione certainly had some moral conflicts regarding this blatant invasion of privacy. There wasn’t much to justify her snooping, so she elected to push aside those niggling feelings of shame to focus on the task at hand — finding any clues that might help her piece together what happened here in 1911.

Continuing to curse in her head, Hermione steeled herself to begin her very unethical investigation.

“Feel guilty later,” she murmured as she stepped further into the room.

The walls were a deep navy. A large four-poster bed dominated the center of the room, opposite a pristine white mantle topped with the same marble found throughout the house. She eyed the landscape, candlesticks, and books that lined the mantle before moving on to inspect the rest of the room.

A desk sat beneath the window further from the bed, was flanked by heavy grey velvet curtains. To the right was a bookshelf, neatly arranged with leather-bound tomes. A wardrobe across the room with a mirrored door tracked her every move.

She chose to focus on the desk first. The drawers held little more than paper and pens. Some ancient stamps, envelopes. It was all nondescript. The bedside tables were equally boring. Digging through the wardrobe was especially guilt-inducing. The clothes inside looked old fashioned, nondescript, but in good condition, clearly well-cared for and quality. It struck her as odd that none of them had tags or brands on them — were the Malfoys so rich they could afford handmade attire?

The shelf in the corner contained nothing suspicious — it was solidly packed with books, mostly a selection of literature from the last century. Nothing screamed, “LOOK AT ME, I’M A CLUE.”

“Nothing like feeling like a paranoid freak,” she snipped at herself. Her guilt would be even worse if this last room turned up nothing.

Again she looked closer at the mantle. A small ivory box contained merely matches. The candlesticks were nothing more than brass. But the books up here were well-loved, with creases down their spines unlike those on the shelf. She flipped through them one at a time, pausing on a slim red volume of poetry.

Its pages were crisp and yellowed with age. She could discern favorites, many of them love poems, “Bright Star” by Keats, for instance. But there was little else to suggest it special — until she hit the back endpaper. It didn’t match the swirling pattern of the front endpaper. Hermione looked for a seam along the edge and saw a bit of yellowed glue. They were stuck together.

Running her nail along the edge, she loosen the two pieces of decorative paper. It got a little tricky near the hinge, but enough came unstuck so she could start to coax back the pages gently. Eventually, she managed to part the top end page from the bottom, causing a card to flutter out from between them and land on the rug before.

Hermione stooped to snatch it, moving closer to the desk to take advantage of the overcast daylight seeping in.

It wasn’t a card. The glossy surface was that of a photo, she could tell even as she looked at the white backing. Her heart clenched to read a single word in faded black ink.

_Viola_

Hermione bit her lip as she flipped the photo over to examined the sepia depiction of a young woman sitting at a finely wrought iron bench, a misty backdrop, and several potted plants setting the studio’s scene. The photo’s occupant looked directly at the camera with sharp yet warm eyes. Her lips were slightly parted, as though she were deeply inhaling. Her hair was pulled up, but that did not hide the volume of her curls. A few escaped styling and framed her face.

There was no tint to the photo, but Hermione could easily imagine that the hair was the color of caramel and the eyes a deep brown. Because that face was too familiar. That face was her own.

For the second time, she dropped the photo.

If she were a weaker person, Hermione might have dropped herself, fainting to the rug. But that wasn’t her instinct. Dazed, she stuffed the photo into her jacket pocket, replaced the book of poetry, and left the room.

Per usual, she found Peter in the conservatory, watering plants, said goodbye (praying she didn’t appear overtly chipper), and flew from the manor.

As she drove home, taking deep, measured breaths, a sign caught her eye. It was mounted on top of a stop sign, the glare from the afternoon sun winked at her.

 _Everly Rd_ read the white lettering. It was less than a mile from the manor. She’d never noticed before; Hermione was not one for reading street names. She navigated mostly using GPS or recognizing landmarks.

The name rang a bell. She thought on it hard as she drove back towards the city, knowing she had come across it recently.When she pulled her car into its assigned space, the words came back to her.

_Miss Shaw was last seen walking near Everly Road on Sunday afternoon._

—XXX—

“Hermione, my crystals are recharging tonight,” Luna said seriously. “They need to soak in the aura of the full moon, of course. But I’d still be happy to do a reading. I really feel like you could use it. My cards are just upstairs.”

Hermione scratched Crooks behind his ears before he trailed over to her roommate, who stroked him from head to tail. This wasn’t the first time Luna had kindly offered to use her assortment of New Age-y trinkets to assist Hermione with something. For the first time, she almost considered taking her up on it. After all, she’d used all practical resources to little avail….

“Thank you, Luna, but not tonight,” she said finally. “I think with my research nearly done. I’m going to take a total break from thinking about the house and the Malfoys. At least, until I start the essay.”

Luna smiled dreamily. “I doubt that Hermione. But you do deserve a break. Just promise me if you do need help, you’ll ask.”

“Of course.”

A thoughtful expression passed her roommate’s face as she continued to pet the ginger cat between them. “It is an old house, isn’t it? I wonder if you might consider taking the ouija board out there. I mean, aren’t there bound to be some spirits? Especially considering what happened there. Maybe that would clear some things up.”

It took a lot to keep from laughing. Carefully, Hermione pointed out that information relayed through ghosts likely wouldn’t be acceptable in an academic essay — and she wouldn’t even know how to cite it. To her surprise, Luna laughed.

“Not for your essay, for you.” The younger girl shook her head, smiling. “You’re clearly wrapped up in this beyond needing facts for some paper. There’s a mystery here and you’re on the case. If there are in spirits in Malfoy Manor, maybe they could give you the answers you need. Closure for you and them.”

The thought was surprisingly nice. And she was right, Hermione realized. Her interest had gone far beyond what she needed for Binn’s class. She was nearly obsessed with the questions of why the house had been abandoned and if the missing governess and dead heir had anything to do with its shuttering. Questions that were definitely beyond the scope of Binn’s assignment to profile a local historic building.

“That is thoughtful of you, Luna. But I won’t be going back to the Manor again, so I suppose I wouldn’t have the opportunity to commune with the dead.”

—XXX—

Theo’s next visit was on a Friday afternoon. He brought a bag laden with sandwiches and chips and a wary attitude. Draco sat in his study reading a novel when his friend entered. Without looking up he gestured for Theo to sit. Instead, the dark-haired young man tossed an envelope onto the leather-topped desk. It fluttered in the air before skittering it land askew before Draco.

 _Mr. Malfoy_ was written in neat, familiar cursive perfectly centered.

Without a word, Mr. Malfoy snatched it and tore open the creamy paper as Theo settled in one of the two chairs facing the study’s desk. He hadn’t read the note but when Hermione dropped it by she’d said enough for him to guess its contents. And guess that they would dramatically change his friend’s mood.

Predictably, Draco’s hands shook as he lowered the card to the desk. Theo noted that it was a rather nice card, a deep navy with embossed gold lettering on the front and a sort of diamond pattern. Simple but tasteful.

“She’s not coming back,” Draco said after a long painful exhale.

“But she at least said thank you. In a lovely card too, impeccable manners.”

A vein visibly pulsed in Malfoy’s brow. “I don’t give a fig about her manners, Theo. I thought surely she’d be here through the rest of spring. I thought I had _time._ ”

His friend shrugged. “She’s a good student. It would stand to reason that she’d have her ducks in a row. Probably has other things to focus on.”

Draco hissed. Turning to the window, he looked out at the front-drive, which was empty save for Theo’s car. Had he scared her off? Or was Theo correct, that she had simply gotten what she needed and left?

Theo sighed from his chair. He hadn’t been surprised when Hermione had dropped the envelope by his apartment. Harry had said she’d been acting strangely — nervous, almost secretive. Her friends brushed it off as pre-graduation stress, but one look at her drawn face had told Theo otherwise. Hermione Granger looked…haunted. And for anyone aware of the facts, it wouldn’t take much to guess why.

If anyone were to figure out the madness behind this blasted house and its cursed occupants, it would be her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update. Pandemic + Mental Health Issues = Difficulty Finding the Will to Write
> 
> I've decided what was going to be chapter 7 was going to be a little long so I've split it into two. Yay extra chapter!

“Excellent, as always, Miss Granger,” Binns praised when she reached her last slide, which featured a photo she’d taken a few weeks ago of the house at its best angle from the drive. “Now, does anyone have any questions?”

Ernie MacMillan, her only true rival in this class, immediately shot up his hand. Patiently, Hermione nodded.

“You said that the original architect was from outside of the community,” he began. “And you had difficulty accessing the original blueprints. Where did you end up finding the copies in your presentation?”

“The current owner was kind enough to provide them when I toured the house. The original architecture firm had long closed, so the only copies that were accessible belonged to the estate.”

Ernie crossed his arms. “It seems like most of your sources came exclusively from the house itself.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. They were encouraged to use a wide range of resources for such research projects, but of course, her most notable ones came from the Malfoy archives. She opened to mouth to retort when Binns swooped in to save her the opportunity.

“The Malfoy estate is an unusual case,” he said. “Given the tragedy that occurred there, and the community’s feeling towards its occupants. I know Hermione had some difficulty finding data pertaining to the structure itself, so she had permission from me to use what she could from the family’s collection. Any other questions?”

He looked around, spotting Romilda’s raised hand from the back. Internally, Hermione sighed. Romilda wasn’t exactly the cream of the crop when it came to academia.

“Yes?” She prompted politely.

“Did you see any ghosts while you were there?” Romilda asked, a little breathless. “Everyone says Malfoy Manor is haunted.”

“Of course not,” Hermione dismissed. “The only spirits I saw were the kind in a bottle. The family keeps an extensive scotch collection. Now, anyone else?”

—XXX—

The name on the caller ID wasn’t a surprise. Still, Hermione hesitated in answering. After several seconds of internal debate, she pressed the green button on her phone’s screen.

“Theo?” she greeted cautiously.

“Hermione,” he replied and she could already hear an undercurrent of irritation in his tone. “I’m sorry to bother you. Draco asked me to call.”

For a brief moment, she feared he knew about the photo sitting on top of her dresser. Had he noticed it missing and demanded their middleman call to get it back?

Theo sighed heavily, clearly very put-upon. “He really needs to get his own phone. Anyways, he says thanks for the card. He wanted to know if you’d be interested in stopping by sometime this weekend. Apparently, Peter came across some more family photos Draco thought you’d be interested in seeing. There are some great angles of the conservatory or something he thinks would be helpful with your research.”

Hermione bit her lip, mind whirring. Finally, she managed, “That is so kind of him to think of me. But as I said in my card, I’ve got everything I need.”

“Yeah, he said that.” The annoyance was front and center now, but she suspected it was primarily aimed at his friend and not her. “He just wanted me to pass that along. Apparently thinks they’re special, said you can see the relative he’s named after in a lot of them.”

This was very tempting. Hermione mentally cursed, wishing that Peter had found these things before she’d wrapped up her research. The images probably wouldn’t add much to her assignment. Her own curiosity, however, was another story.

“Mr. Malfoy has been so generous with me. But I really couldn’t impose again —“

Theo cut across her. “Mr. Malfoy, is it now?”

Now she was mentally cursing Theo. Hermione ignored the jab. “Is there any way you could share copies with me? Maybe scan them?” She knew she sounded desperate.

A short laugh. “Malfoy Manor doesn’t even have a phone line, Hermione, they certainly don’t have a scanner. And you know better than anyone that Draco would never let any of these things leave the house.”

“A photo, then,” she said. “Just a few shots with your phone, you can email them to me.”

“I doubt they’ll come out,” he replied. “They’re already dubious quality, and there are so many.”

Hermione inhaled deeply, rubbing the bridge of her nose. Of course, this couldn’t be easy.

“I supposed I could visit tomorrow. It’s really lovely of you both to think of me. With graduation coming up, my schedule has gotten a little full, so it’d only be this one time….”

“One last time, Hermione,” he promised. “I know you won’t regret it.”

—XXX—

“Luna,” she called out into the apartment. She listened as she slipped on her boots, relieved to hear the faint, “Hermione?” in response.

Her roommate was in her room, reading on her bed. She smiled in that dreamy kind of way when Hermione stopped in the threshold, knocking on the open door to gently interrupt.

“You’re going out?” she asked, nodding to Hermione’s boots and jacket.

“Malfoy Manor,” Hermione replied shortly. They’d discussed Theo’s call last night. Hermione hadn’t gone into great detail, only saying that something had happened to give her the creeps and returning to the house gave her a hint of dread.

“If you’re not back in two hours I’ll call the calvary,” Luna said. “You have your cellphone?”

Hermione brandished it from inside her jacket pocket. Luna nodded, pleased.

“I’m sure it will be fine, Hermione. I asked the cards last night after we spoke, and I didn’t see anything dark in them.”

The reading had been done at the kitchen table while Hermione made them both some tea. Frowning now, she recalled the image of Death in his black cloak appearing in the layout.

“Isn’t that bad?” she asked her roommate, recounting the card to her.

Luna laughed, a tinkling musical sound. “Oh, no, not at all. It came up under the fourth position — I did an advice layout, thinking we needed that most — and in that layout, the fourth position shows what will advance the problem, what you need. And Death doesn’t mean the loss of a life, necessarily. It’s about rebirth, transformation. A door closing as one opens, you know.”

This stumped her for a moment. She felt a little shame as she asked, “What…what do you think that means? For me, today?”

Luna shrugged. “I can’t say. They’re not exactly, specific, the cards. But I can tell you that it would be helpful to keep your mind open. It can’t be all bad, today. The cards said that much.”

Hermione, who relied entirely on facts and science, research and peer-reviewed papers, felt only a little reassured.

—XXX—

Peter had answered the door, but instead of escorting her as usual he merely indicated the direction of the study and promptly fled. It was not a promising sign.

Hermione took a deep breath, hiking up the strap of her backpack. “Just one hour,” she murmured. “One quick little hour and it’s back home.”

She’d hoped that Theo would be around, but as always the drive was void of any other vehicles. He wasn’t even a friend, however, having someone else around felt safer. Was Mr. Malfoy offended that she’d attempted to disappear?

Climbing the stairs of the great hall, Hermione made a point of avoiding the windows that lined the far side of the room. The sight of herself, covered in blood, still rang in the back of her mind. It was hardly an image one could easily dispel.

The door to the study was closed when she arrived. Steeling herself, Hermione rapped twice and waited.

“Come in,” came a familiar drawl.

She gripped the polished brass knob tightly and turned.

The master of the house was at his desk, clearly occupied with the paperwork spread across the leather surface. A finger of whisky kept him company in a crystal-cut glass by his elbow. As Hermione crossed the threshold, he glanced up.

“You came quicker than I imagined.”

“Theo made it sound like your discovery was particularly remarkable. And he declined to send me a photo over email.”

Draco’s lips quirked. “Yes, my rule I’m afraid.”

“I thought as much.”

He sat back against the winged-back leather of his chair. “Hermione, it almost strikes me that you are unpleased to be here? Did I drag you away from some vital studying?”

Temper flaring, she crossed her arms. “Finals are in a few weeks,” she murmured. “I ought to focus on studying.”

Truth be told, they were more like a month and a half away, but she wasn’t about to tell him so; the ready-made excuse was too good to let go.

“Come here. You’re lurking.”

Hermione frowned. “I am not -“

Crooking his fingers, Draco motioned for her to moved closer. “I can barely see you.”

She purposefully dragged her feet against his ornate Turkish rug, stopping short of the center of the room. Jutting her chin forward, she stared at him, irate to see the corners of his thin lips pulling into a ghost of a smirk.

Taking a breath, she refocused the conversation to the point of her visit. “I’d like to see those photos now, Mr. Malfoy. My assignment is done, but they might add a nice final touch - provided you’ll allow me to make copies.”

“Are we back to Mr. Malfoy now? My, tell me what I’ve done to deserve such an icy reception.”

“I just want to keep things professional,” she insisted. “I let myself relax too much before —“

Draco barked a laugh. “Hermione, I truly believe you’ve never let yourself relax.”

The impulse to stomp her feet like a small child had never been so strong. Hermione glared.

“Mr. Malfoy, I am here in a strictly academic capacity. I’d like to see those photos. Now, thank you.”

His pale brows rose. Thankfully, rather than being offended, he only appeared more amused. “In that case, Miss Granger, I shall show you…strictly academic, of course….”

They were spread out atop the credenza against the left wall. Draco hovered behind her as she drank in the assortment, occasionally pointing out the odd interesting image. New photos of nearly every generation of the Malfoys…a photo of the ballroom, filled with the blur of spinning guests….the conservatory, plants taking up every corner….

“It’s a pity Peter didn’t run across these until last week,” Draco said casually. “They were tucked in the dark corner of a bedroom he hardly dusts, but it was on his schedule I suppose. Lucky he found them, regardless. They’ll go into the family archive after you’ve had the chance to paw through them.”

A family portrait of Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco I (as Hermione referred to him in her head) was scattered amid a few imagines of what appeared to be a holiday to a beach. Hermione immediately removed it from the spread, inspecting the stark black and white image thoroughly. She was struck by how drawn they appeared, sorrowful, even. Was this when they’d first joined the Serpent’s Club? Had they realized that they were trapped under the power of a man who knew no limits?

Once again Hermione was taken by how similar the elder Draco looked like the man hovering behind her. His body heat radiated onto her back, an ever-present reminder of…danger? Desire? She wasn’t sure anymore.

Swallowing, she lifted the photo up delicately and turned to face her host. “He looks rather like you, doesn’t he? It’s remarkable.”

“Yes,” Draco said softly.

Hermione took a breath and decided to forge ahead. “He was the one who died here, in the ballroom?”

He didn’t ask how she knew this. Merely nodded, tightly.

“Dr. Binns had some articles set aside for me. It was difficult, finding anything out about this place. No one wanted to talk about it, strangely. This young man, killed in his own home, by would-be thieves. Rather tragic.”

“Yes,” Draco repeated.

His voice was entirely devoid of interest. Yet she forged ahead.

“And then I found another article, it was on the other side of the clipping about the murder here. A missing governess. Last seen around here, on the very road leading to the estate.” Hermione’s voice rose in pitch, a habit she found annoying but couldn’t seem to quit.

He sat before her, impassive as she withdrew a folded paper and a card from inside her jacket pocket. His eyes were hollow spheres watching as she unfolded the paper and presented both to him. Hermione couldn’t seem to stop talking, trying to fill the stale air between them in the hopes that the silence would break if she just kept throwing words out at it.

“I saw the photograph,” she said quietly. “The one stuck in that books of poetry. And I don’t think my mind could fully process it. It’s impossible. But you’ve seen it, haven’t you?”

He didn’t reply, merely stared as she held up the photo of Viola Shaw and the photocopy of a new photo. The photo on white copy paper was grainy, but it was abundantly clear who it was.

“It took some digging. But I was able to find another photograph. The family she once nannied for had it in their attic, but they didn't have a clue who it was, you see, not after all this time. Thankfully they didn't throw it out. One of my classmates was happy to track it down for me and let me scan it. You see, I like to be thorough.”

Draco’s hands were suddenly around her wrists, effectively trapping her. She squeaked at the pressure. The photos fluttered to the floor. He leaned forward, breathing deeply as though to take in her scent. “You’ve always been so clever, yet so dense sometimes, Hermione. I knew you’d been in my room, and it was clear you’d taken the photo. But of course, that wasn’t good enough — you had to find another picture just to be sure.”

She attempted to resume ownership of her limbs, tugging them towards her chest. Draco, however, didn't budge, merely watched her with a faintly amused quirk in his thin lips.

Glaring, Hermione resumed the conversation, figuring that if she couldn't have her hands, perhaps she could at least unveil some answers.

“It doesn’t make any sense. Did Theo send me to this house because I resemble some girl in a photograph? I wasn’t even sure if you were aware of the photo, if perhaps it was just a silly coincidence.”

He chuckled, pulling her with him towards the couch. “There is no such thing as coincidence. Not here.”

Draco forced her to sit - albeit rather gently - on the settee before the fireplace, releasing her wrist but keeping one hand in his. It was as though now that he had given himself permission to touch her, he was afraid to let go. He sat beside her, still looking pale and drawn as before, but his eyes alight in a way she’d never seen before. It did not bode well.

“Why has no one lived in this house for a hundred years, Draco?” Her voice was low, she was trying to keep the panic from creeping in. “Something happened, and then suddenly everything stopped. Viola Shaw was involved somehow. Was it a murder?”

“Do you think anyone wanted to stay here after they saw the ballroom floor slick with blood?” His voice was distant. It was as though he were looking out on the scene, seeing the horror she could only imagine. “Her blood and then my blood. It was every parent’s worst nightmare. Even the member of that blasted cult couldn’t take it. They hadn’t signed up for violence so up-close. Only bombings and the like. Things that don’t require getting your hands too dirty. The cowards.”

_The reflection of herself in the black glass window of the ballroom, dark wet blood weeping from her throat came to mind. His eyes on the drops of garnets dangling and flashing light at their dinner weeks ago._

“Why would they have killed him?”

Draco made a _tsk tsk_ sound, running the pad of his fingers along her skin in such a way that caused her to shiver against him. “Hermione, you’ve never been one to avoid asking the right questions.”

“I’m not avoiding anything,” she protested.

Suddenly his hand went to her neck. Hermione bit back another squeak as he cupped the back of her the base of her neck, his thumb stroking the soft spot of her throat. She sat very, very still, entirely unsure of how to react to this strangle display of...affection?

You’re talking as if you were there,” Hermione said, unable to keep a quiver from her voice. “And that’s not….not possible.”

“That’s because I was there. And you were too,” Draco replied, his eyes glowing silver.

—XXX---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you kindly for reading, please review, follow, kudos, etc.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW intimacy
> 
> There is a A LOT of dialogue in this chapter. As this is sort of a mystery, we've reached our "everything-is-super-explained" climax.

—XXX—

Mind reeling — _this can’t be real, he’s hallucinating —_ Hermione did the only thing she could think to do and kept him talking.

One summer, when she was in high school, she’d volunteered at her public library. In the training, there had been a brief portion dedicated to working with mentally ill patrons. Even though she and the other volunteers would be primarily shelving materials, they would likely encounter at least one person struggling with some kind of illness. The training emphasized compassion, and in the case of those paranoid or hallucinating, not confirming them but treating them with respect. One librarian told a story of going so far as to walk down to the boiler room when a woman insisted she heard voices coming from there, then returning and kindly stating she’d not seen anything.

This was not so different. She’d treat him with respect and kindness and maybe, just maybe, she could coax him to let her leave.

“How are you here, then?”

He shrugged. “I can’t be anywhere else. Just as you’re drawn here, so am I.”

The accusation struck her squarely in the chest. Hermione wanted to protest — she had stayed away, she could leave. But he wasn’t wrong. At the drop of a hat, she’d returned, despite the dread that welled in her at the thought. Maybe she was just as trapped as he was.

“This doesn’t make sense.” Hermione pulled gently back, but he didn’t budge. “Draco, what happened? Help me understand.”

“She died,” he said simply. “It wouldn’t do for the son of Lucius Malfoy to fall in love with someone like her. There were your usual problems — too different, not one of us, lower class, an outsider, a scandal. My family, the organization, all saw her as a dangerous distraction. She’d already made me stray from our ideals. So she had to die. And who could stay after that? The family’s reputation was hardly saved when the solution was to stain their hands.”

“You’re being vague.”

His smile was almost pitying. “It doesn’t matter. It’s in the past. You’re here now.”

With that he leaned forward and tugged her closer, pressing his face into her brow and inhaling. Frozen, Hermione didn’t struggle. After the admission of murder — though over a hundred years ago — her drive to physically resist Malfoy was faint. Shock kept her still as he lowered his mouth to hers. The notion that he was insane or felt entirely safe in sharing the secret entered her mind. She wasn’t sure which she preferred.

Accusing someone of insanity was not an action to be taken lightly. And enough had occurred in her time at the house to make Hermione suspect that maybe Draco Malfoy wasn’t the only one with a tenuous relationship to reality.

He was kissing her with bruising passion, nipping her lower lip and soothing the bits over with his tongue, gently persuading entry to pillage her own mouth. Hermione’s mind was rather preoccupied, but she found herself responding, which caused Draco to shift closer, pulling her up into the sofa with him. Awkwardly, she found herself straddling her host. His hands had released her wrists and now sat firmly on her hips. Coaxing her closer still, he gasped when Hermione’s torso pressed against his. She shivered as he ran kisses along her jawline.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she said weakly. In protest? In a haze of lust?

He merely chuckled a pressed another kiss to her, this time along her temple.

She thought suddenly of Pavarti, Lavender’s roommate. She was a psych major — not an expert, but maybe she would know of something like this. A psychotic break, an illness that makes one think they were someone from the past. This hallucination of Draco’s — if Draco was even truly his name — was intricate and deeply embedded. He wasn’t in touch with reality, clearly believing he was the Draco Malfoy who was killed a hundred years ago and she was Viola Shaw, the girl he loved.

What did that make her, if she willingly kissed someone who was clearly so ill and possibly even dangerous? She shuddered and this time it was not with pleasure (despite the fact that he was caressing her left breast as he continued to kiss along her neck).

The questions running through her mind soon gave way to less coherent thoughts. Draco nuzzled her neck before he began assaulting the crook of it with open-mouthed kisses. It was her turn to gasp as he ran his nose so softly along the sensitive spot along her collarbone, sending an electric shock through her.

“We’re together now,” he murmured against her skin. “Just as we’re meant to be. I won’t let anything hurt you, not again.”

_Not again._

It was difficult to think as his fingers stroked her waist and she felt evidence of his need against her core. Hard and promising. Her eyes fluttered closed.

Draco’s nose trailed down the v of her t-shirt, dangerously close to her breast. Swiftly, he pushed the fabric of the shirt aside, then lifted her right breast out of the cup of her bra. Hermione gasped when his lips closed around her nipple, thrusting forward. Draco held her against the small of her back, groaning to feel her grind against him. She found herself wishing she had worn a skirt today instead of jeans.

Soon he had relieved her of the t-shirt altogether. Hermione followed his lead, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

“Draco,” she breathed when he shifted them so that she was stretched beneath him. He kissed her again, bruising. Like he’d been waiting a hundred years.

There was a special place in hell for someone who had sex with a person who was so clearly struggling with psychosis. She was, theoretically, taking advantage of an ill man. But as he drew her against him, groaning as her legs wrapped around his waist, she wondered who was taking advantage of who.

—XXX—

They lay in the dark. Hermione stared up at the canopy, eyes tracing the constellations woven in the fabric. From outside the bed, no one would ever guess the secret stars that could be seen beneath the first layer of velvet and damask.

Draco, on the other hand, was staring at the woman beside him.

After they’d collapsed together, spent, on the settee, Draco had coaxed Hermione to accompany him to his room, where they’d sleep until nightfall. She’d woken to her phone buzzing in her jacket pocket on the floor at the foot of the bed.

“Luna,” she’d gasped as he sat up groggily. Pressing the green button on the screen, she’d spoken into the phone hurriedly.

“I’m fine, I’m so sorry. We got caught up —“ She glanced back at her host in his bed, her hair making a lovely curtain framing her anxious face. “ — talking. Yes. Sorry to have worried you.”

“I wasn’t too worried,” Luna reassured her merrily. “The cards said it would be alright.”

“Er, yes. I’ll — I’ll text you later, shall I?”

When she hung up, Hermione remained kneeling on the plush rug biting her lower lip worriedly, looking up at him.

“Come here,” Draco said.

She returned to the mattress to stretch out beside him, letting silence fall like a warm blanket over the room.

Things hadn’t played out as he had expected. Draco had anticipated many possibilities to his declaration, but sex had not made the list. Then again, it was just like Viola — _Hermione,_ he reminded himself — to do the unexpected. Kissing her had been something he’d longed to do, but her response of pulling him closer, returning that kiss and then some, had been a surprise. A lovely, wonderful surprise.

“Do you really think you’re…him?”

She’d rolled over to look at him, eyes scanning his face.

“You think I’m not?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Hermione admitted. “But I know you seem to believe you’re Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. And it makes me worried that I just slept with someone who is clearly very ill. That or a ghost.”

He couldn’t help it; he laughed. “I don’t think that’s how ghosts work.”

Laying on her side, she had a hard time crossing her arms. “Then what else could it be? A very elaborate con for some unfathomable reason? Are you a vampire? Did you get resurrected? None of this makes much sense.”

Draco looked at the canopy, thoughtful. “I sometimes feel as though I’m going mad, you know. But it’s not a con. And it’s not magic. I just…there is a me that was born in 1890…and a me that was born 1990. And when I came here five years ago, those two people just sort of became one.”

She had a million questions. He could practically feel her vibrating with the energy of wanting, of desire for knowledge.

“I’ll start at the beginning — well, one beginning. I was born twenty-three years ago, in a city on the coast. My family still carries the Malfoy name, but we are distantly related to the family that once lived in the Manor. When I was seventeen, a solicitor informed my family that a great-great-uncle we’d met only once had died, and the estate, in all of its glory and disrepair, was going to me. There was an odd stipulation in the will regarding firstborn sons, and since my father was gone, I was the inheritor. My mother wanted me to go to the school, so worked out that I moved in at eighteen. Peter was already here, keeping up with things.”

He paused, swallowing. “As soon as I arrived, I began to see things. And hear things. And before long, dreams began, but they felt more like memories than dreams. All focused on this unfamiliar life based here. You were in those dreams. I couldn’t get you out of my mind, even in the moments when I wasn’t immersed in his life. It didn’t matter — before long there was only one Draco Malfoy.”

“How is that possible?”

Draco tilted his head against the pillow, musing. “It’s strange. I can remember my life before I arrived here. I still write my mother. She’s visited the occasional holiday. But there’s a larger part of me that remembers growing up in this place. And most of the time the two parts sit comfortably with each other.”

“And when they don’t?”

“They push each other around a bit,” was all he said mildly. Hermione suspected that was an understatement.

Continuing, he resumed staring at the canopy above them. “The real trouble began when memories of my — his — death started surfacing. I am sure you can imagine what that does to one’s psyche. I ended up only attending school for a semester. That’s how I met Theo. He’s the only one who knows, you see, besides Peter. We became friends almost instantly. Somehow, he believed in this madness. So when I withdrew from classes, struggling to deal with my 'little problem,’ he endeavored to help keep me sane. I am so grateful for his friendship.”

Here he paused again. “I told him one day of the things haunting my dreams. Of the girl, who I watched die night after night but could never save. When he saw the picture, he was floored. ’She’s Potter’s friend!’ I had no notion what that meant until he explained that a girl identical to Viola Shaw attended university with him.”

Hermione didn’t interject, though she dearly wanted to. Instead, she reached for Draco’s hand that lay on the bed beside hers, squeezing tightly. Her analytical mind was reeling. This — Reincarnation? Spirits? — was more Luna’s forte than her own. If anyone elsewhere monologuing such madness she would have politely tuned them out.

“We didn’t know what that meant. If it was fate or a solution. But Theo endeavored to find a way to bring you here.”

“Why didn’t you, I don’t know, join him at one of Harry’s parties? Crashed a night at the bar, come to a soccer game?”

Draco hesitated. “I didn’t just leave school because of my mental well-being. Leaving the house was becoming…difficult. By the end of my first semester, being away for more than an hour was nearly unbearable. I would get these awful headaches….”

“So you just stayed?”

“It was a gradual process. It took months before we realized I couldn’t pass the gates. By then I’d dropped out, planning on returning when my health was improved. That suddenly no longer became my goal. My primary objective became understanding what happened in this house. Like you, I went to the library.”

His lips quirked sadly. “When in doubt, go to the library. Peter was a great help. And Theo, bless him, was the only person to keep me sane and tethered to my old self. He probably thought I was well and truly bonkers, but once I pieced things together, he simply behaved as though it were fact — that I was somehow the same man who’d been brutally murdered here a hundred years ago.”

Hermione was quiet, processing. She felt her head spin, attempting to better comprehend the narrative. Draco thought himself to be —what, cursed? Reincarnated? Inhabited by a ghost? That much wasn’t entirely clear. What was clear, she realized, looking into his stormy eyes, was that she wanted to believe him. Heart in her throat, Hermione twisted her fingers. By now they were sitting up, backs against the headboard.

“Help me understand. I only have pieces. You think I’m somehow the girl he - you - watched die back then. The timeline is muddy for me. You said that Viola wasn’t good enough for your family’s liking, but that can’t be the only motive for murder. There must have been something more.’’

“You’re right,” he agreed, leaning forward. His eagerness pulled at Hermione’s chest in a fluttery sort of way. “There was more. It was a…demonstration. Tom was showing the group what happened when someone dare defies him.”

“Defy him how?

“I spoke to the police chief,” he began, voice low. “I brought documents, I names. I told them everything he’d done — framing the Prewitts, the bombing at the Bones, all of the threats. Everything I could possibly prove.”

“You wanted him gone,” she said in wonder.

Draco gritted his teeth. “He was nothing more than a con man. He conned us just as much as everyone else. And he was turning the city and its conflicts into something much darker than they’d been before. It was nothing more than a gang. But I was naive. He had them all in his pockets — the police, the attorneys, the judges. Everyone. That’s why it had gone on so long. He probably knew what I’d put on Fudge’s desk within the hour I walked out of the courthouse. “

Running a weary hand over his eyes, he sighed deeply.

“Riddle may not have seen me as a threat before but after that…he needed to teach me a lesson. He sent Avery and my uncle to find Viola. I’d been frantically looking for her after she failed to meet at our usual spot — it was to the north of our property gate, just along the wall. There’s a small door there, for the groundskeeper.We were going to picnic that Sunday. But she never appeared. So I’d figured she was busy with work until her employers began asking around.”

“At the meeting Wednesday night, they brought her in. I hadn’t even wanted to be there, I wanted to continue looking for her. But I had no choice, when summoned you….you were compelled to go.”

Here he paused. “It suited my parents fine. They didn’t approve of me marrying a governess. My father looked so smug. I’ll never forget his expression and how much I wanted in that moment to strike him. But I don’t think Father realized what Tom intended. He was angry. He wanted to do more than teach me a lesson.”

“She thought the miners were justified.” There was a grim expression of amusement on his face.“And she agreed with the idea of unionizing. Snuck me into a few meetings I could hear them for myself. My father knew she was dangerous to our history of corruption and greed. Her station in life was bad enough. But the thought of worker’s rights? That was inexcusable. All the better for Tom to make an example of her — and of me. Punish us both for our sins.”

Hermione’s hands were almost white as his grip on them tightened. They hurt, but she refused to interrupt.

“They slit her throat and let her bleed out in the middle of the great hall,” he hissed, eyes trained on the wall behind her, gaze glassy. “They passed around glasses of scotch and slapped me on the back like it was some kind of rite of passage and like a coward, I cried as she lost every drop of color.”

“When you played your hand he didn’t just punish you, he destroyed the only thing you loved.” Hermione’s voice was soft.

Thinking back to her dream, Hermione remembered again the reflection in the window of blood falling from her neck. Of the way Draco had stared at the garnet teardrops, she’d worn several weeks ago. About the damn marble floor, soaked with crimson.

“What-what happened then?”

He took a long breath. “I decided doing things the lawful way wasn’t going to work. I tried, for Viola’s sake, to do things by the book. But she was gone. And I didn’t care if I lived or died trying to stop them.”

“When the evening wound down to laughter and smoking and most everyone had gone home to their wives, I found him. He had left the smoking-room and was in the ballroom. Someone had the decency to cover Viola with a sheet, and Tom was standing over her, staring at the blood-stained fabric like they were tea leaves telling his future. He was alone. I’d lifted my great-great-great grandfather’s dueling revolvers while everyone was cavorting. So I aimed one at him as he stood over her remains.”

“Tom should have expected it. It was clear to me he had no allegiance to us, yet he didn’t believe any of his club capable of betrayal. He was blind to the notion that one of his followers might seek vengeance on the punishment he dolled out. If I’d had a little more patience, if Fudge hadn’t been in his pocket, things might have played out so differently. The chief of police wasn’t interested in what I knew, but one of the prosecutors was — Dumbledore. Less than an hour after being laughed out of the police station I was in his office. He wasn’t sure he could get Tom immediately. Said it might take months to even convince his boss to pursue it. That was enough for me.”

“The tax evasion,” Hermione said suddenly. “You were the one who brought evidence to Dumbledore that eventually led to Riddle’s arrest.”

Draco smirked. “Tom didn’t figure that out until long after I was gone. My final parting gift. He’d only known about Fudge when he decided to punish me. And I’d gone to Fudge only with information on the Serpentine Club’s union-busting.”

She was overwhelmed with this confession. It might very well be the ramblings of an unwell person, yet every word struck her as true. The Malfoys _had_ left because of their son’s death. Viola and Draco had been in love, and she’d died not at the hands of him or his parents but the psycho cult leader who had once ruled the town. The psycho who Draco had unsuccessfully orchestrated to disappear, possibly even as a result of Viola’s influence.

None of this explained why the man before her thought he was _the_ Draco Lucius Malfoy and she was his reincarnated girlfriend. Hermione wanted to ask so many questions, but she settled on just one.

“You didn’t take the shot? At least, not in time.”

His lips pursed. “No. Tom was always a quick draw. He heard me cock the gun and before I’d put any pressure on the trigger, I had two rounds in my stomach.” Draco stopped, seeming to consider something. “I’ve never figured out if I went down there to die or to kill him. I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore….”

Impulsively, she took up his hand. “Draco. I’m sorry.”

To her surprise, when he looked up at her, tears glistened in his eyes. Without much thought, she leaned forward to kiss his cheeks, willing them away.

“Do you believe me?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? She drew back from her ministrations, biting her lip. Did she believe him? Could she bear to accept the notion that something supernatural had brought them here, together? His wariness, his sudden warmth, the inexplicable attraction and dreams and nightmares —

Believing in such tosh felt, on one hand, simple. Easy. Hermione Granger was never one for simple.

Then again, Hermione Granger had known that coming back to Malfoy Manor was a bad idea, yet here she was. In the owner’s bed, no less. Was it possible that Viola Shaw was the type to believe in reincarnation?

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “But I believe you believe it, truly. And I think, for now, that’s good enough for me.”

This time, Draco was the one who kissed her.

—XXX—


End file.
